


The Dummy's Guide to Surviving Life With The Shape of Haddonfield

by PriestessKhu



Category: Halloween (1978), Halloween (2018)
Genre: 1978 Michael, Almost forgot to add that the reader is pagan in this one, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Blood, Choking, Chubby Reader, F/M, Humor, Mentions of past verbal abuse, Michael is a warning of his own, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Reader Owns A Cat, Slow Burn, Swearing, bipolar depression disorder, mentions of past emotional abuse, minor canon divergence only because Michael was never caught, no specific deities involved, reader suffers from mental illnesses, reader wears glasses, relationship with a slasher, takes place some time in the 80's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-11-12 20:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18017870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PriestessKhu/pseuds/PriestessKhu
Summary: In this handy guide, we will be teaching you how to coexist with the one and only Michael Myers without getting stabbed or turned into part of a hanging light fixture. However, given the subject of this guide, your blood may have already stained this page before you got the chance to read this far.Oh well.Gold star for trying, though.





	1. Step One: Survive

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a Myers fan since I was a kid but never got around to making a fanfiction about him until now. (Mainly because I'm procrastinating on my TEW story. No surprise there.)
> 
> This one will have a bit of humor, but there will also be some serious and dark parts because Michael is involved and starting a decent relationship with this man is going to take a LOT of work. I'm going for canon Michael from the 1978 and 2018 movies and decided to make this a reader insert just for funsies.
> 
> Also, you lovely peeps are getting my lion of a cat in this story. His name is Haji and he is an asshole that absolutely loathes the squeakers in dog toys. There is no escape from the floof.

When you moved to Haddonfield, Illinois, a roommate was the _last_ thing you were expecting to get.

Not that you would ever call someone who wore a dark blue jumpsuit, creepy stark white emotionless mask that suspiciously looked like a stretched out and abused William Shatner face, and carried a massive knife at all times a _roommate_.

Was it mentioned that this masked roomie also happened to be some mass-murdering entity of an urban legend within Haddonfield? The supposed legend that was currently standing opposite to you with a kitchen knife in hand? The very knife that would have no doubt slit your throat if you weren’t so quick on your toes despite being overweight?

Because this was _not_ what you signed up for when you moved into 45 Lampkin Lane.

But lets go back the beginning, shall we?

This all started when you finally got fed up with dealing with unstable and emotionally abusive relatives and decided to move away from them. Far, _far_ away.

You didn’t know where you were going to settle down, if you ever got to that point. All you knew was that you needed to be somewhere that would be too much of a hassle for your family to bother tracking you down to.

With what little money you’d been saving up from odd jobs and selling smaller crafts since your early teens, the options were limited. Another ratty apartment wasn’t exactly ideal to you and your cat. Unfortunately, that was all that you believed you could safely afford in your desperate move.

Until you happened across an unbelievably cheap two-story house in Illinois.

It was purely by accident, actually. You’d stopped in the town of Haddonfield to rest from your road trip across the states, as well as give your poor ears a respite from your black lion of a cat yodelling about how crappy the roads were.

The pit stop wasn’t made with even the slightest intention of looking for any apartments in the area. It was on a total whim that you decided to take a walk around the small town, but that was what brought you to 45 Lampkin Lane.

As derelict as the clapboard house was, you couldn’t help but fall in love with it at first sight. When you realized that it was for sale? Despite very valid suspicions that you couldn’t afford it, you still had to look it up on the market.

Much to your pleasant surprise, the run down property was within your price range if you took out a small mortgage. Sure, the place needed some serious fixing up, but that would give you something to focus on while you and your cat, Haji, settled in.

The biggest question you were asking yourself was if you were ready for the responsibility of owning a home so early in your life; mortgage notwithstanding.

You’d bought the house without finding an answer to that question.

You also weren’t too worried about why the price of the place was so low. It was obviously due to the old age of the house and the unkempt state of the entire estate, or so you believed at the time. Not that it kept you from smoke cleansing the house and yard with white sage before placing black salt at all four corners of the property.

Also, crystals. You placed crystals _everywhere_.

Moving in comfortably was a bit of a challenge. You’d left your old apartment with only the bare essentials, as well as everything your beloved asshole of a cat would need, so the only thing you had that could be considered furniture was a cat bed and an old sleeping bag.

Thank the gods for thrift stores.

Within a week you had acquired a small sofa, IKEA dresser still in its box, a pair of side tables, some lamps, rugs, heavy duty curtains, and a plastic table for the kitchen. You were thankful that you’d been smart enough to keep your small amount of dishes and cutlery with you when you’d finally moved away from your family.

You were forced to spend the most money on buying some direly needed appliances, such as a refrigerator and functioning toaster oven, and a brand new mattress. Your cat wasted no time in hogging the mattress while you spent three hours trying to figure out how to put the damn IKEA dresser together. His long, silky black and silver fur was _everywhere_ and the smug little buttlicker had absolutely zero fucks to give.

As to fixing the house itself, you started with the windows and front and back doors once you’d cleaned the inside of debris that consisted mainly of discarded beer bottles, torn magazines, and dead leaves. You buried the few animal carcasses you’d had the misfortune to discover within the home.

The main goal was to make the place livable again, but it would take a considerable amount of time with your budget. Your bedroom was the first room to come out the coziest so far, which wasn’t really saying much, but oh well.

Touching up the outside of the house was a little easier. You were amazed with just how much better the place looked with a few fresh coats of white paint. When it came to the leaking roof, you were forced to buy buckets and figure out a way to fix it yourself to save some cash. The remains of the original wallpaper in every area of the house needed to go, too.

Still, you found yourself enjoying the work you did on the house between sleep, selling some of your crafts to the neighbors, and the part-time job you managed to land at the local hardware store.

Things were good in your life for once. Sure, you still needed medication for your manic depression and anxiety disorders, the neighbors never came inside when you offered to make them tea or coffee, and the local kids were little fucking twerps that you pelted with water balloons whenever you caught them vandalizing the house, but you were fine with that. You were _happy_.

You were so happy, in fact, that you weren’t consciously registering any of the early signs of something being... _off_.

The first of the signs was that you felt unnerved most of the time from the day you did the walk-through of the property with the realtor. It felt like you were being watched. You just assumed you were being your usual paranoid self, especially with how persistent the damn neighborhood kids were with their harassment.

The things they were spray painting on the house, for example. It didn’t become hard to learn to brush off the bright red ‘the boogeyman rules here’ and crude pentagrams after you became so adept and catching the kids in the act. Apparently they weren’t appreciative of the vinegar water you were dousing them with every time they got caught sneaking onto your property at night.

You didn’t ever take their threats of being killed by something they called ‘The Shape’ seriously. It was easy when you didn’t know what they were talking about. As far as you were concerned? The kids were just upset that they no longer had an abandoned house to hide their stolen booze and nudie magazines.

Then there was the issue with your cat.

From the moment he was allowed to roam the house, your cat would sit and stare at the basement door at odd hours. You always kept it closed so that he couldn’t go down there, as it smelled _almost_ like a sewer and was generally a disaster down there, but that didn’t stop the giant walking pom-pom from this strange new behavior. This caused you to begin praying to any deity that cared to listen in that this wasn’t an indication your home was haunted.

You probably should have asked the real estate agent about the history. Although, he _might_ not have been honest with you, seeing how eager the man was to get rid of the place.

When you noticed strange sounds coming from within the walls while you were taking down all of the ancient wallpaper in the kitchen, you came to the relieving conclusion that your weird puff ball was hearing rodents. It wouldn’t be the first time. Despite being a very astute cat, however, Haji was not the best at hunting mice. Only spiders, moths, and squeaky toys lived in terror of the king of floof.

It was the day you mentioned the random noises possibly being a rodent problem to one of your neighbors that you caught your first clear tidbit of your property’s history.

Dear old Barbara hadn’t meant to let the knowledge of the murder that happened in one of the upstairs bedrooms slip out. She was quite mortified that she had, but you assured her that you’d like to know because no one had mentioned anything like this to you before or after your purchase of the house—aside from asshole teenagers, you realized later.

So Barbara told you about the little boy who killed his older sister one Halloween night.

Michael Myers was a name you’d heard murmured around town a few times, but it was only then that you made the connection. You also promptly went out and bought supplies to preform a blessing ritual in honor of any potential spirits of teenage girls.

A ritual of such a degree wasn’t something a young pagan like you had ever done before. You never had any need to do anything further than candle and crystal work. That was mostly as a means to keep yourself spiritually protected from the negative energy of your family.

Still, you were always one for honoring the dead to the best of your abilities and didn’t let inexperience stop you. You were also thankful that the room you chose as yours wasn’t the one Judith Myers died in, but that was beside the point. The room being vacant meant setting up a tiny shrine for the late teen in a place where your cat couldn’t wreck it was a thousand times easier.

Unfortunately, things didn’t exactly settle down from there. They actually kicked up in frequency.

Items around the house began to move or show up in different areas—the first being your wallet, which thankfully showed back up later the day you noticed it missing, and some crystal you left on a windowsill to charge in moonlight one night that never turned back up—food was disappearing from your fridge, bits of mud or dirt would show up around the inside of the back door, and the shrine you made for Judith had vanished from her room in less than twenty-four hours. The feelings of being watched were starting to get worse as well.

You blamed the neighborhood kids once more and changed all of the locks. Just to be on the safe side.

These were only some of the dots your oblivious mind wasn’t connecting at that point, although you _did_ finally kick your ass into gear and look up the Myers case one sleepless weekend when morbid curiosity decided to pay a little visit. You sort of wished you hadn’t.

This was mostly due to the fact that you discovered Michael Myers returned to Haddonfield fifteen years after murdering his sister and killed even _more_ teenagers. You could vaguely recall hearing about it on the news when it had happened some years back.

Michael had also taken out a small number of pets. You subconsciously started keeping a closer eye on your cat after that, but thought about The Shape of Haddonfield issue no further than that. Other than the curious thoughts about the incidents that would occasionally resurface when you were having one of your usual bouts of insomnia, anyway. That was a usual thing for you, so no real problem other than the all too familiar lack of sleep.

Besides, no one had seen Michael in _years_. Not after he’d been shot six times and fell off a second story balcony. A human wouldn’t be able to survive such a thing, so you believed that you had very little worries about the serial killer coming after you.

In hindsight? You shouldn’t have forced yourself to brush something like that off. If you’d just let yourself be as paranoid as you usually were, then _maybe_ you wouldn’t have thoughtlessly investigated the scraping noise from the second floor with only a butter knife in hand. _Especially_ when you could see that your was cat asleep on the counter next to the kitchen sink and clearly not the culprit of the aforementioned wood grating against wood sound.

Thus the situation you were in now:

Staring down the notorious Shape of Haddonfield with only a plastic picnic table between you and a dented broom handle as your only weapon because your lazy ass hadn’t unpacked your _k_ _itchen k_ _nives_ yet. Blindly running for your life also hadn’t allowed you the chance to grab the camping machete you kept between your mattress and the wall for self defense purposes.

Not that it would do much against the living mountain that was Michael _fucking_ Myers. How tall _was_ he!?

Over a foot taller than you at a bare minimum, that’s what.

Granted, that might not really be saying much for most people, but you were short and this stab-happy motherfucker was still over six foot tall. You were at an unbelievable disadvantage when this was factored into the equation of how absolutely _fucked_ you were.

Yes, you were fast and had a kick that could topple most people, but Michael had a greater reach, damn near inhuman strength, some ungodly high level of pain tolerance, and the ability to utilize reflexes that made your childhood years of dodgeball queen skills seem sluggish. Maybe that was why Michael never rushed—he knew he’d get his prey no matter what.

 _That_ pissed you off, although the source of your fear-driven anger might be due to your current position of being cornered like some b horror movie bimbo. Which was entirely your fault, too. _Fuck!_

Neither you nor Michael dared to move.

It was as if time had stopped while you two gauged each other. Your cat had been smart enough to scurry out of the kitchen when you came barreling in with a killer hot on your heels, so that just left you breathing heavy and Michael standing opposite to you as if he hadn't even broken a sweat. Even with the mandatory breathing, Michael could have been mistaken for a statue.

You didn’t exactly know what you were waiting for. What you _did_ know was that your hands were going numb from gripping your broom so tightly and the adrenaline coursing through your veins made your body burn uncomfortably.

You also knew that the poor metal handle of the broom wouldn’t be able to take another blow from Michael, whether he used his knife or not. However, you’d be _damned_ if you went down without one hell of a fight if he decided to flip the cheap table out of the way and charge.

You’d twist Michael’s fucking _nipples_ off before letting him send you into oblivion.

“Look, you’re Michael, right? Michael Myers?” You finally got the courage to speak to the hulking figure that refused to give any form of a reply. Your breathing was evening out, but you were sure to keep your gaze hard and the grip on your broom even harder. “I get that this is your childhood home and you have every right to want me dead for being here, but couldn’t you have waited until _after_ I fixed the house up some more? I haven’t even picked out any new wallpaper for the front entryway yet!”

Yeah, as if your indecision on _wallpaper_ would save your life in a situation like this. Not when the boogeyman had come calling close to eight months before his favorite holiday.

The motion of Michael’s head slowly cocking to one side made your heart damn near leap out of your chest. It was such a small movement, but you were expecting him to come at you to end this little game any moment now. Seeing as you were trying to be prepared for such a thing, you were understandably a _little_ jumpy.

You couldn’t demand what Michael wanted from you. It was pretty obvious to you that you’d sealed your fate of an early grave just by being dumb enough not to check the fucking history of the first house you’d ever purchased in your entire life.

...Still better than living in the near-constant fear of the verbal and emotional abuse from your family, you supposed.

At least you were actually able to defend yourself in a physical fight like this. Physical pain was something that was far easier to handle when compared to the shouting and hate that never failed to trigger your anxiety.

With that thought, and praying that Barbara would discover your corpse before your cat had to resort to eating your face just to stay alive, you adjusted your grip on the broom handle. Michael seemed content to just stand there indecisively and stare at you with his body poised like some immovable wall, knife held at his side as his hand rhythmically clenched and relaxed around the handle, so if he wasn’t going to come to you? You would just have to kick this bad boy off by going to him.

May the gods have mercy on his nipples, because you would be giving _none_.

Your leg muscles flexed as you prepared to allow every ounce of fighting instinct within you to take over. True, you’d read that Michael was monstrously strong and knew that he would be able to overpower you with ease, but you were still intent on going out kicking and screaming.

Crouching, breathing deep, vowing to yourself that you would last longer than thirty seconds against this beast, you went to push into action. The first step seemed nearly impossible to take, but you began the lunge forward and—

 _Grumble_.

—Stopped dead in your tracks because _what the actual **fuck**?_

The unexpected sound was one you knew, but it most certainly had _not_ come from you. As if to solidify this fact, Michael slowly looked down to his stomach. _He_ had been the source of the sound; a gurgling growl that had emitted from his digestive tract.

“...You’re... _hungry?_ ” You asked in utter disbelief. Michael lift his head to stare at you once more, yet he didn’t move further than that and continued to hold his silence. All that you could hear from his direction was the hollow, steady breaths echoing within his mask.

Your suspicions were further confirmed when The Shape’s stomach gave a second, weaker sound of the increasing need for sustenance to ensure that it could continue to function.

Most of the tension fled from your body in that moment. It wasn’t exactly something that was intentional at first, but you couldn’t stop it. Not when you realized that the entity standing before you wasn’t some kind of immeasurable manner of beast.

Well...not in any way that was _explainable_ , if that unnervingly dark and unearthly energy he seemed to emit was any sort of indicator.

Michael was, however, at least on some basic _biological_ level, human. He was a _living being_.

He had no qualms about hunting and killing others, yes, but there was still _something_ human beneath that mask. _Somewhere_. Watching distantly within the swirling black depths of those empty sockets, no doubt.

While most people would immediately take this as a sign that Michael would be able to be killed, your mind took a different route—to the unfinished sandwich that had been abandoned on the table less than five minutes earlier, to be more specific.

It made you think of all of the food that had disappeared from your refrigerator shortly after you got it. It made you think of _everything_ strange that had been going on since the moment you moved in. Your dumbass brain was finally, _finally_ , piecing everything together.

The missing food, relocated or disappearing items, incomplete tracks at the back door, uneasy feelings of being watched, your cat being obsessed with the basement door...

It was all _Michael_ , and he’d been in the house with you from the very beginning.

You weren’t sure if his presence in the home had been consistent. Either way, Michael being there explained things a lot better than teenagers breaking in or the place being haunted.

And so here Michael was—in your kitchen with his stomach protesting a lack of a recent enough meal.

Strangely enough, and no doubt _stupidly_ enough, your fear of him was ebbing away considerably. The primal part of your brain was still shrieking for you to fight for your life, but your not so rational thoughts were slapping that aside thanks to being far too sympathetic a person for your own good. Apparently not even being faced with the very real possibility of a gruesome death could deter your bleeding heart.

This was proven when you lowered your broom without much care for how direly you still might need it to defend yourself. Hell, you just went full out reckless idiot and set the broom on the counter _behind_ you.

Michael watched all of this with his head ever so gradually tilting to the side again, shoulders slumped forward but still visibly tense. He could see that, while wary of any movement that he made, you weren’t in the prey state you’d been in moments earlier. You weren’t attempting to flip the tables by slipping into a predator mentality either, which wasn’t something he was accustomed to.

Your expression was one of serious contemplation while you stared back into the occasional glints of eyes you’d catch within the abyssal sockets of the mask glaring back at you. The young woman now standing before Michael wasn’t something he’d witnessed before. You weren’t exactly _calm_ , nor completely trusting due to still expecting him to attack at some point, but you’d settled into an oddly balanced state of being conflicted between foolish compassion and the instinct of self-preservation.

You weren’t really like anyone Michael had dealt with before—and this wasn’t referring to the fact his house was now full of all kinds of colorful stones on the window sills, _or_ the small memorial he’d stolen from his sister’s old room.

Admittedly, this encounter was his fault.

Michael had become far too lax in the month since you’d moved in and he’d begun to study you. He knew your name and age (despite how your short stature and youthful looks initially led him to believe you were a teenager), most of your favorite foods, how you could see well enough that you tended not to wear your glasses when you were at home, that you were getting professional help for mental illness, how you liked to keep your hands busy, suffered from numerous bouts of insomnia, had a love-hate relationship with your cat, and that you had many habits he found strange. All of those different stones you collected, for example. He still had the bowl of the crystal clear ones you left on one of the windowsills overnight a week and a half back.

Michael also came to learn that you were unbelievably _oblivious_ , and dangerously so when it came to his presence in the home. He wasn’t always there, but you hardly consciously noticed whenever he _was_. In the rare instances where your cat would indicate another person’s presence, you would think the astute feline was just trying to track rodents.

Your unobservant nature made Michael feel that he had far more of an upper hand than he normally did when it came to going unnoticed. This is what caused him to allow himself more of a free reign in the house while you were at work.

Which was why he wasn’t prepared when you came home early that evening.

Michael had been up in your bedroom to inspect the newest addition of some stones he’d overheard you talking to your cat about the day before. Your room tended to be a bit of a mess, with the mattress on the floor surrounded by random craft supplies and boxes you had yet to unpack, but he found himself in there quite a lot. There was always a strange woody smell that lingered in the air.

It somehow settled Michael when he was surrounded by such a curious collection of items, enough that he would allow himself to drift off into the deeper stretches of his mind. That stillness he'd begun to take for granted shattered when he had heard the keys in the front door and you entered the house with an exhausted groan of relief seconds later. You’d gone into the kitchen to make a snack before anything else.

While food sounded good to Michael right about then, as he hadn’t raided the kitchen since that morning, he knew that he didn’t want you to see him. Not yet.

Thankfully for him, you hardly went into his sister’s old room. Michael knew he could hide out in there until he had a clear path down to the basement. Maybe he could watch you working on macramé necklaces for a while if you decided to do so that night.

You might just forgo crafts altogether and try to sleep after eating, but that was fine. Michael would watch you sleep sometimes, too, but no real part of his _urge_ would arise despite him not really liking the fact someone had moved into his home.

Perhaps his inaction was due to the fact that the voices, the ones that would crescendo in quiet hours or whenever a hunt presented itself, never bubbled up into the chorus of the screams that demanded blood be spilled when he was near you. The voices were still there of course, but they never rose above a whisper— even when Michael would stalk you through the house, yard, and sometimes through town.

This happened sometimes, so it wasn’t a matter Michael concerned himself with for long. He had time before the voices would inevitably kick up on their own once Halloween swung back around. All he needed to do was make sure that you weren’t completely aware of him until then.

Should the voices howl and sing for your demise before Halloween? His knife would be all too eager to dig into the plump flesh of your gut while his firm grip at your throat kept you pinned down until your final breath left you.

For now, Michael chose to remain a part of the shadows. He would be the featureless shape just at the edge of your vision, the sounds you would brush off as the wind, the creature lurking within the darkness of your hallways and closets.

But the house was old and had been neglected for far too long, and the door to Judith's room would occasionally stick to the frame. It did just this when Michael had attempted to ease it closed behind him.

For once, you didn’t ignored the sound it made. Not like Michael had been expecting you to.

For someone who was usually so oblivious to his existence, you were _un_ usually aware that evening. You’d fearlessly gone into the room he was in and towards where Michael had soundlessly retreated to the barren closet. He would dare to think that it was like you’d been drawn to him by some unseen force. Whatever that force was, if it existed at all, brought you and him face to face long before Michael would have preferred.

He didn’t even have his knife out at the time, but you were out of the room with a startled shriek after a mere glimpse of his masked face. Michael had no choice but to pull his blade from his pocket as he chased after you as.

There was no uncomfortable or painful stiffening in his groin as he chased you—no cacophony of voices' screamed demands to nullify any pleasure of such arousal when devoted to the hunt. This kill was going to be more out of necessity than to quell the thirst of the urge that was rooted deep within Michael's very soul.

The last thing he needed during his ‘down time’ was the cops being called. Not wanting to return to a mental institution was why Michael’s hunts were done mostly at the edges of Haddonfield whenever The Shape within him stirred outside of October. His self-preservation didn’t go much further than wanting to be left alone between kills. It was the only time when the voices that spurred on his urge were about as placid as they would ever allow themselves to be.

Even with Michael’s wide, steady steps giving him an advantage over your short-legged scurrying in terms of distance, you were _not_ easy to catch. Not that you actually thought to get out of the house once you got to the foot of the stairs. Most people would. You, on the other hand, bolted into the kitchen to arm yourself with a _broom_ because there was no time to dig in a box for your own butcher knife. Not that you would have found it, as Michael had stolen it within the first week.

He would have _almost_ found the futile utilization of a broom as a means of self-defense worthy of some mild interest if you hadn’t used it to fend off his attack, kick away the hand that was holding his blade, and duck out of his reach—all of this _without_ losing your glasses—like some master of martial arts from the old movies.

A master of martial arts dumb enough to get herself trapped by a serial killer in her own kitchen, so you were certainly no Bruce Lee.

No, now you were just being more of a nuisance before your inevitable demise. The lack of the voices filling his head to drive on the upcoming kill, the absence of _any_ of the usual reactions from his body or mind from this fight, was beginning to birth a dark irritation within Michael. He didn’t approve of that.

You were refusing to curl up and beg for your life, even after his stomach annoyingly announced his growing hunger. The fact you noticed Michael needed to eat actually seemed to give you some bizarre form of clarity.

You were obviously conflicted about something involving him, but your eyes were no longer burning with adrenaline and fear and you'd chosen to discard the broom. This left you defenseless enough that Michael could have flipped away the table and had your vulnerable throat clamped within his massive hands in less than thirty seconds.

You really weren’t like any other person he’d come across before.

“Michael...would it be alright if I make you a bit of a deal?” You suddenly asked after mulling things over in your head for what seemed like an eternity to you. There was no response from Michael, _surprise surprise_ , but your voice had unknowingly brought him out of his own relentless thoughts.

You motioned to the items on the table when no move to kill you came. “I’ll finish making this sandwich and give it to you if you promise not to kill and eat my cat.”

Michael gave a tilt of his head at your words. You got the impression that he was either confused or curious as to the nature of your request. It was for the life of an animal, but not for yourself.

“Look...you can try to kill me all you want. I’m used to taking various forms of abuse anyway.” Sighing softly and keeping your gaze on the hulking male, you blindly reached behind yourself in search of a butter knife in the dish strainer beside the sink. “I just don’t want my cat to still have to go through that shit with me. I mean, sure, that walking ball of fluff is a little _asshole_ , but...he’s all I’ve got. He’s my baby.”

You found one of the clean butter knives and dared to step closer to the table. Thankfully, Michael did not. He seemed to be allowing you to do as you said about finishing the sandwich. His complete and utter attention remaining focused on you was making you take notice of the fact that your spine had been tingling for some time now. You tried to ignore it and focus on making what you liked to call a _damn_ wich while still keeping an eye on Michael from your peripheral.

“Hopefully you don’t mind having roasted chicken breast in your sandwiches. It’s the only lunch meat in the house until I can go grocery shopping.” Casually talking to a serial killer was a bit weird, even for you. It didn’t exactly help that Michael remained as quiet and as motionless as ever. His form was like a great mahogany tree atop a hill, overlooking and guarding sacred lands from trespassers.

You were currently still unmaimed and breathing, so that must have been some sort of a positive sign. You really, _really_ hoped.

You continued with the task at hand. Your damnwiches usually consisted of wheat bread, mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, Tillamook cheese, and whatever meat you had around at the time. Hopefully Michael found the sandwich acceptable enough for his tastes.

It couldn’t be worse than raw dog meat, right?

“So,” You finished the sandwich by cutting it with the butter knife so it was in two triangular halves before you carefully slid the plate towards Michael’s side of the table. You tilt your head and offered him a hopeful little smile as you saw him glance to the food being offered. “Do we have a deal?”

Not as surprising to you as it probably should have been in your hopefulness, Michael didn’t move to take the food. Your shoulders sagged and you gave a small whine. You just worked your ass off on that damnwich, dammit...

But, if Michael didn’t want a sandwich, then he didn’t want a sandwich. You had to think of something else for your cat’s sake.

“I can make something else if you don’t want the sandwich...?” You offered with yet another lack of any form of a response from the other side of the room. Well then, let’s see if you could find a way to figure out what would tickle Michael’s fancy. “There’s some Pasta Roni in the pantry, as well as everything to whip up a batch of spaghetti. I also have rice and butter if you’re in the mood for something a little more plain.”

Nothing.

Damn, he was a hard one to read...

Your lips pursed in thought. There really wasn’t much in the house right now and you doubted Michael would just let you go out to the grocery store to stock up on the usual random fixings he seemed to hone in on.

Thinking long and hard, still feeling like you were trapped in some outlandish stalemate, you remembered one of the few box mixes you hadn’t used yet. “...You ever hear of Matzo ball soup? It’s really good, especially in colder weather.”

That got Michael to tilt his head at you again. You couldn’t help but give a little grin of victory at getting a reaction out of him, but said grin quickly vanished when a banging knock came from your door. The knock had caused you to jolt with a sharp yelp out of reflex and fresh anxiety reared up. It was a _cop knock_.

“Haddonfield police department! We got a call about a domestic disturbance; _please respond!_ ”

Michael turned towards the front door. You shuddered, unsure if this was an indicator that he was going to kill the officer standing just outside of the house. That was one of the last things you wanted right now, although oddly enough...not for the cop’s sake.

You weren’t sure _why_ you were about to do what you were about to do, other than you were probably finally losing what little sanity you had left.

“One moment!” You shouted back in the hopes your front door wasn’t going to be kicked in. Michael returned his attention to you and your heart stuttered briefly before beginning to race far more painfully than when you were being chased. You were expecting him to _really_ come at you this time.

He didn’t. Instead, Michael turned his head back toward the door when the officer tried to keep you talking. “Is everything alright in there, ma’am? We were told that screaming was heard from this residence!”

You should have taken this opportunity to tell the officer about Michael. You should have immediately shouted out that he needed to get his ass in there because the infamous Shape of Haddonfield chased you into your kitchen with a knife in hand, left you with only a cheap broom to defend yourself, and was probably waiting for just the right moment to go in for the kill, but you didn’t. Why the _fuck_ weren’t you screaming for help now that you could get it!?

“Yes, everything is fine! I just hurt my leg when I tripped over my cat while going down the stairs!” It wasn’t exactly a lie that came tumbling from your lips. You _did_ hurt your leg the day earlier from slipping on the bottom steps leading to the second floor when your cat bolted between your feet without warning.

“Do you need an ambulance?” The officer’s mostly muffled voice was full of concern and you could imagine that he was about to call for the ambulance he just mentioned.

“Nope,” You replied in an attempt to keep something like that from happening. This was more of a personal preference. Besides, the EMTs had better things to do other than looking at a bruised leg or getting murdered by the one and only Michael Myers. “Just give me a second to put my cat up so he doesn’t run out the door when I open it!”

Michael was staring at you again, head canted to the left, but all you could think to do was smile awkwardly and softly say: “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Despite every ounce of your rational thoughts telling you that doing so would get you _eviscerated_ , you inched your way around the table and squeezed past Michael to get into the front entryway. There was the faintest sound when the hem of your shirt ghosted against the dusty fabric of Michael’s threadbare coveralls along the way. This had been lost beneath the soft murmur of the polite ‘excuse me’ you’d given Michael, but the limited space between the two of you was impossible to ignore.

You heart was pounding in your ears from the body heat you could feel radiating from his larger tensed form, as well as the monkey part of your brain wondering why you’d willingly get so close to a predator. You, however, were still in that frazzling internal state your brain opted to latch onto. Not calm, not terrified; simply a mess lingering between a desire to make some sort of peace with Michael and the instinct to just grab your cat and leave Illinois.

Your bizarre mental state of confliction was furthered when Michael didn’t so much as _grab_ you. He simply remained where he was standing as he watch you go to the front door, pull on the hoodie you’d left draped over the rickety banister at the bottom of the stairs, adjust your glasses, and grip the doorknob.

Pausing, you looked to that imposing figure still lurking within the kitchen doorway.

“The cop will probably see you if you keep standing there.” Once again, you didn’t know why you were doing this. Michael didn’t either, if the sustained tilt of his head was anything to go by. You didn’t think he was going to take your advice at first, yet were pleasantly surprised when the Shape of Haddonfield did one of the things he was known best at—vanishing.

It was a simple step back and out of sight. Amazingly, you didn’t hear the telltale sound of heavy bootsteps or Michael’s breathing. Holy fuck that was both incredible _and_ terrifying. No wonder he was known as the boogeyman. Now, fingers crossed that Michael wasn’t going to come back in and slit your throat when you had your back turned.

Shaking off the chills your awe and concern were giving you, you quickly unlocked and opened the front door. You were greeted with a clearly cautious older police officer who had his hand on his holstered gun. Hoping it didn’t look too suspicious, you smiled apologetically and leaned against the door frame.

“Sorry about that. My cat has a habit of running through open doors and I’m not willing to trim weeds out of his fur when he finally decides he’s hungry enough to want back inside,” You lied, as you knew your cat was probably going to be hiding for the rest of the day. He wasn’t going to be a problem, but that didn’t stop your insides from twisting. It must have been from the ongoing inner turmoil of wondering why the _hell_ you were doing all of this.

Michael still might kill you and your furry baby even after everything, so _why_ were you being this...this _stupid?_

The officer seemed surprised to have someone so young answer the door and it took him a moment to collect himself. “Are you sure everything is alright?”

“Yes, everything is fine now. I didn’t break anything when I was forced to take the sudden gravity check.” You continued to smile as you lift your one leg. The bruise you knew was there hadn’t started visibly forming yet, which allowed you to pull of your little just-tripped-down-the-stairs lie so well.

“That’s good, at least. Are your parents home right now?” The officer was looking into the house from over your head as he made his inquiry. He looked pretty nervous.

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep in contact with them.” Was your blunt reply as you watched the man’s borderline flighty behavior.

“...What?” He asked, dumbfounded. You expected this and reached into your purse, which you’d dropped by the door the moment you’d gotten home, to pull out your driver’s license and hand it to him. The shock creeping across his features as he read your date of birth was something you were used to seeing. “Oh. _Oh_. I’m so sorry, ma’am, I thought you were—”

“Younger? Yeah, I get that a lot. It’s the round cheeks and dimples. My height probably doesn’t help things, either.” Soft giggles shook your shoulders briefly as you spoke.

People’s shock and embarrassment upon learning your age tended to do that to you. Even with the paranoia lingering in the back of your mind that Michael was going to pop back up and kill you any second now, you somehow found amusement coming to you easily. It was so strange. So... _surreal_.

Even so, you didn’t want the cop hanging around much longer.

Unbeknownst to you, the officer didn’t want to be on your property any longer than was absolutely necessary. He knew he still had to do his job, however—old Myers house or not.

“So it’s just you and your cat living here?” The officer continued with the question. Simple routine, but he was only increasing in his visible unease no matter how hard he was trying to keep his anxiety under wraps.

“Yes sir,” You confirmed, still picking up on his uneasy behavior. He looked as uneasy as a part of you was still feeling from the whole serial killer issue still lurking somewhere within the house. You really needed the officer to leave before you weren’t able to hold your _own_ anxiety back anymore.

There was a quick way to get rid of a police officer that your mother was quite adept at. The only problem with using her old tactic was that the success rate was only about fifty-fifty. It was one of the few tidbits of wisdom your mother unintentionally bestowed upon you.

With how spooked this guy was, it might just do the trick to send him on his way.

You’d opened the door enough for the officer to see the stairs leading up to the second floor. “You can come in and have a look around, if you’d like? I can show you which step will be laughing at me for all eternity alongside my cat.”

His clear view of the interior of part of the house seemed to cause all the color to drain from his face.

As there were no gunshots or screaming that immediately followed his sudden paper white complexion, you doubted the cause was due to Michael. Physically, at least. Not that you could look behind yourself at the moment to actually _check_.

“I—” Both you and the officer just about jumped out of your skins when his radio suddenly went off. It had something to do with a robbery in progress and the relief that rolled off the older male was palpable. “Perhaps another time, Ma’am. This robbery takes priority.”

“Of course. Good luck, Officer!” Hopefully your compliance wasn’t suspiciously eager, but the cop was honestly in too much of a hurry to get out of there to have noticed. You closed the front door seconds before sirens and flashing lights lit up what the setting sun no longer could. It wasn’t until the blaring sirens faded down the street before you secured both of the locks on the front door.

Strange that you felt the overwhelming urge to so firmly bolt yourself _inside_ the house, considering...

Gaze flickering to the kitchen, you forced yourself to take in a calming breath. You hadn’t realized that you were so incredibly fearful about something horrible happening until that moment, as the minor action of your eyes moving brought on immediate dizziness. It seemed like your mind was taking the opportunity to attempt initiating the panic attack you’d been staving off during this entire mess.

Walking wasn’t a good idea now that things were beginning to openly flood through your system without the adrenaline keeping their effects at bay.

Placing your forehead against the cool surface of the door gave you something to focus on while you were forced to sort out everything inside of your head. You somehow did this without succumbing to how overwhelmed you were. It was a bit of a struggle, but at least you managed to keep from collapsing to the floor in tears. There were far more dire things to attend to.

You found yourself cautiously stepping into the kitchen as soon as your anxiety and lightheadedness had receded to a tolerable level. Michael was nowhere to be seen.

Amazingly enough, neither was the sandwich.

The plate was still atop the table with nothing more than little crumbs as the only evidence that food had recently been there. You took notice that the basement door was hanging wide open. Seated at the top, peering intently into the darkness with wide golden eyes, was your cat. He was unharmed, which relieved you immensely.

That should have been the moment you left the house, risk of crippling debt be _damned_.

As the mistress of many a bad choice in your short lifetime, however, you decided against it.

It was beginning to feel like the choice was made in favor of that damn bleeding heart of yours, but you were also letting your more stubborn nature weigh in. You didn’t escaped your abusive family just to be intimidated into running again by some _serial killer_ , dammit, but you weren’t really angry when it came down to it.

After all, the sandwich being taken seemed to be an indicator that Michael might be willing to form some sort of truce. You sincerely hoped that this was the case as you picked your cat up and closed the basement door to the point of a small crack with your foot.

The internal Molotov cocktail of your emotions didn’t stop burning your insides at all that night. Not as you made Matzo ball soup, not when you shouted down into the basement that dinner was done, not when you left a steaming bowl on the table before heading up to bed, and most certainly not when you lay awake that night. Every little sound the house uttered made you wonder if Michael was just on the other side of your locked bedroom door.

When morning came around and you finally dared to venture from the false safety of your room, the house was blanketed in a eerie calm. At the foot of the stairs, stuck to the wall via a screwdriver stabbed through it, was a piece of relatively new wallpaper. Was this a sign that you could stay and keep fixing up the house...?

...Welp, looks like you were stuck with a roommate after all.


	2. Step Two: Establish Your Role

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Twenty-seven pages to sate thy hunger. Hope y'all enjoy this one as much as you did the first chapter.
> 
> I don't know how often this story is going to be updated, but hopefully more than once a year.
> 
> Oh, and fair warning: there's choking and mild gore in this chapter. It's Michael, so we really shouldn't be surprised.

Living with the knowledge that a serial killer was occupying your home alongside you was certainly something that took adjusting to.

It wasn’t that Michael was a bad ‘roommate’, despite him eating whatever he pleased, continuing to take things without permission (the jerk had yet to return the one bowl of crystals he’d pilfered from the windowsill _or_ the handful of other stones that had gone missing since then), and occasionally tracking in dirt mixed with...well, _blood_ , a number of times. Cleansing the house with sage each time you had to mop up clotted or dried blood was now a weekly occurrence.

Even when doing whatever he pleased, Michael had kept to the deal about not killing and eating your cat. You considered that a positive thing and decided not to say anything about Michael’s more irksome habits to keep it that way.

That didn’t stop how being consciously aware of the killer’s presence was more than a little unnerving.

You’d been lucky enough not to witness Michael holding his knife since that first confrontation. This fact allowed you to be far more worried about how the man had a tendency to drift around the house like a freaking _ghost_.

You figured that this was just another habit of his; something purely instinctual to the point of being nothing more than second nature to Michael. It still didn’t stop you from releasing small sounds of surprise every time you turned around to find him standing behind you.

You were beyond frustrated with how Michael just popping up always made you squeak or yelp. He never actually _did_ anything to you, so there was really no reason to complain further than huffily pouting to yourself. You hated being startled like that and Michael didn’t indicate that he cared. At all. _Ever_.

Then there was the matter of how Michael would just... _watch_ you. For _hours_.

He would watch you bounce to the beats on the radio as you worked around the house, watched while you played or argued with your cat, whenever you would do your macramé work, and you even caught him watching you when you accidentally fell asleep on your new thrift store sofa one lazy afternoon. That last one gave you a hell of a fright—to the point where you had launched a throw pillow at Michael’s head. You missed by a few inches and proceeded to be paranoid for the rest of the day about him possibly coming after you.

Being stared at so much was definitely the hardest thing to get used to. It didn’t really have anything to do with Michael, either. Thanks to a lifetime of hell, you were used to being watched and harshly criticized on how you were messing up whatever task you’d been given.

Michael didn’t ever talk, so he wasn’t going to just start hurling insults at you. You _knew_ this. Your brain just couldn’t let go of the horrid memories of the abuse you’d suffered at the voices of others. You always tried to deal with it silently whenever the stoic shadow that was Michael appeared to observe whatever you might be doing at the time.

This was something that you believed you could eventually learn to not be so anxious about as long as Michael didn’t do anything other than stare.

Much to your immense relief, things were a little easier to handle on the meal front.

...Sort of.

You’d learned very quickly that asking Michael about what he wanted to eat and expecting him to _tell_ you was impossible. He didn’t seem to understand that you genuinely wanted his input—of which he hadn’t given further than that one piece of wallpaper—and was more than wary in the beginning.

Michael already had the power over whether you continued to live with him in relative peace or perish at his very hands. Your need for him to choose what you both ate, to take the offer to control another aspect of the strange dynamic between you two, was something you felt was for the best. Letting him maintain the higher level of control appeared to help keep Michael considerably passive whenever he wasn’t about to go out for a kill or two.

Realizing this motivated you to play around with a few different ideas. It was mainly so Michael could nonverbally tell you what he was in the mood for and no one in the neighborhood would lose a pet.

You began leaving a pen and flyers from the local supermarket out on the counter whenever it was close to time to restock the pantry and fridge. This was usually before you would try for sleep the night prior to any planned grocery store trips and come morning, if you were lucky, the things Michael wanted were marked in one way or another. You did your best to get the requested items if they were within the weekly budget. This also confirmed a suspicion that your reluctant roomie had a bit of a sweet tooth.

At least now you were certain that _you_ hadn’t devoured the entirety of that one dutch apple pie two weeks prior and didn’t remember doing so due to being in some half-asleep state.

For the actual meals you would cook, mostly dinner thanks to work hours, you would set out box mixes or ingredients on the counter or table before leaving for work. Michael would pick from the selection if he was interested enough to. Sometimes he would even beat you to the punch and have things on the counter long before you were awake enough to do so.

There were, however, days he decided not to eat anything. _Those_ days frazzled your nerves with your habit of worrying about things you had little to no control over. That wasn’t the only thing tap dancing across your anxiety-addled brain, either.

The main one was that Michael never stayed in the kitchen to take the time to eat with you.

It didn’t really trouble you at first since he occasionally just stood around and watched you cook every other evening before he’d vanish, but as the days went on you sort of started feeling a little...lonely?

Watching Michael take his food elsewhere while you sat at an otherwise empty table didn’t feel right. Even with your cat constantly trying to stick his tail into your food in some impossible way, the house became far too empty. You couldn’t explain how you were starting to feel, let alone _why_ you were feeling it. This seemed to happen a lot to you these days.

You couldn’t just _ask_ Michael to stay and eat at the table with you. That would have made the both of you uncomfortable, and it might not end well for you.

It was around that time of you overthinking life more than usual that you were starting to notice another problem.

_Michael. **Reeked**._

This was one of those things that didn’t bother you at first. Michael was an adult and could do whatever he wanted so long as he left you and your cat alive and well. His musky, slightly decayed flesh smell wasn’t bad enough that you wanted to avoid him because of it.

You originally thought it was due to him hanging out in the musty basement all of the time, although you weren’t sure _where_ he stayed down there. There were no signs of someone living in the basement and he easily could have been sneaking out through the exterior doors without you noticing.

You soon came to realized that some of the gradually increasing stench emanating from Michael was from the crusted patches of black on his ragged coveralls. You were also pretty sure that he wasn’t bathing. You didn’t know how long for. It was certainly longer than a couple of weeks when you finally noticed it, _that_ was for fucking sure.

As stated before: it didn’t bother you. _At first_.

The smell was getting to be obvious enough that you wondered why you hadn’t thought it was coming from more than the basement before then. You’d become so attuned to the cringe-worthy scent that you were beginning to be able to tell Michael was coming before he even entered the room. Something had to be done about it because you, in your infinite fretting about everyone other than yourself, had become concerned for Michael’s health.

What could you do about someone else’s personal hygiene, though? Michael did whatever the hell he wanted and you suspected that telling him otherwise would only get you killed. He was a very standoffish person that tolerated you, _at best_ , so in the off chance that he _didn’t_ stab you? You still doubted Michael would listen to anything you said, even if your reasoning was based off of an increasing concern for his well-being.

After a month of trying to tolerate the smell that even your incense was beginning to have trouble blocking out, you couldn’t take it anymore. You _had_ to get Michael to clean himself up before he got sick. That or your cat decided to start rolling on the stinky murder man’s boots. Whichever happened first.

But you needed a plan.

You started by going out and buying some hair products (did Michael even _have_ hair under that mask?) and bodywash designed to help with men’s body odor. You made sure that they weren’t too floral in the hopes it might help entice Michael into taking a shower. You even grabbed a loofah on a stick to make scrubbing down easier for him.

There was some trouble when it came to figuring out how you might be able to get Michael out of his grimy coveralls.

For one thing, you hadn’t saved up enough money to buy a washing machine and still did most of your laundry at the laundromat. Even though you knew how to get blood out of clothes, you were pretty sure Ms. Schultz, the sweet eighty-seven-year-old woman who ran the laundromat, would have a heart attack the moment you brought the crime scene of a mechanic’s suit through the door. If not, then she’d probably call the police and sic an exorcist on you.

Not wanting to have to explain that you were neither a murderer nor possessed, you decided that you’d have to wash Michael’s coveralls in either the bath tub or the kitchen sink. The bath tub would probably be your best bet for getting as much crud as you could out of his current/only outfit.

 _If_ you could get him out of them.

You contemplated buying Michael a different set of clothes that he could relax in while you dealt with making sure his usual outfit didn’t reach the point of smelling like sun-baked roadkill. Much like his boots, which were always caked in dried mud that was stuck with what you suspected were pieces of someone or _something’s_ skull, seemed to on the warmer spring days. The only problem with the new clothing scenario was that you had absolutely _no fucking idea what size he was_.

You couldn’t even guesstimate it because Michael never got any closer than six or seven feet after that first confrontation in the kitchen. On top of your habit of hardly wearing your glasses when you were at home, attempting to buy anything that would fit Michael without knowing his proportions wasn’t a very good idea.

Then again, neither was telling him he needed to bathe of his own volition like you were his mother.

As your stressed out brain seriously wouldn’t be able to handle it if Michael kept neglecting his personal hygiene any longer and actually became ill, you ended up buying a large black bath robe. You’d get some actual clothes for him if the world ended and he willingly let you check the tag on his coveralls.

Since you figured that you were doomed to fail this endeavor but were still going to try _anyway_ , you decided to grab a few more things for Michael. A toothbrush, number of differently scented deodorants, razors, and a dual package of shaving cream and aftershave all went into your cart on your way up to check-out. The two large boxes of borax you also grabbed were a must.

Of course, with paranoia allowed at the wheel now, you did all of this extra shopping two towns over once you were dead certain that Michael wasn’t stalking you that day.

One of the problems with Haddonfield being a smaller town was that everyone tended to know everything about everyone else, so how Michael got around without ever being spotted when he’d venture out was beyond you. Probably something to do with the ease of which he would come and go so silently—smell or no smell.

Now Michael was about to learn that he wasn’t the only one that could skulk around unnoticed.

You initiated Operation _Hygiene Horror_ the moment you got home. It was easy to tell that Michael had been wandering the house while you were away, as all of the curtains were drawn closed. That was perfectly alright. Your plan was still feasible whether he was up from the basement or not.

There were no lingering funky smells when you opened the front door and peered inside. Going by this, you guessed that Michael hadn’t been on the first floor in a while. This was excellent, so long as he was actually in the house at the moment.

“I’m home!” You called out as you deposited everything but the borax onto the kitchen table. From there you stilled and listened closely for any signs. The faintest of creaks came from somewhere on the second floor and you knew exactly who it was and what to do.

Michael was a lot like a cat. If something caught his fancy, then he wouldn’t hesitate to get into it. Much like what Haji was already doing with his fat fluffy face shoved into the bag of shaving supplies.

“Off the table, asshole,” You muttered as you shooed your cat onto the floor and kept a nose out for Michael.

That distinct hair-curling odor started to waft in. While thankful that Michael was interested enough about your return home, you couldn’t help but make a face as you crept across the kitchen and tucked yourself beside the doorway. Your heart was racing and you even felt a little _giddy_ at the prospect of giving your stalker roommate a taste of his own medicine.

Michael appeared moments later, filthy coveralls and all.

He hadn’t noticed you lurking beside the cleaning supplies, which was unusual for him but still had you biting your lip as you struggled to keep from breaking out into a huge grin. Michael took a few more steps into the kitchen and peered around without finding you and you had to bite your lip a little harder. This was fun, even with the dangers involved.

“You know,” You began slowly and saw how Michael’s entire body immediately tensed, his fingers stretching before becoming still at his sides once more. It was almost like watching a snake slowly coiling up for an attack. The flash of his absent blade came to your mind’s eye, but you knew that you couldn’t stop now. “It’s hard to sneak up on someone when you smell like a rotting armpit, Michael.”

There was a heavy silence that filled the empty air your words left. Michael was stock still for a cold, breathless second, but his head soon turned toward you with his shoulders following. It was at such a rigid motion that you swore you heard a cartoon soundtrack for a massive castle door creaking open.

You attempted to give a reassuring smile to try and calm Michael, but the victory you were feeling from getting one up on him had you beaming as you stepped away from his blind spot. “Don’t worry, I’m not armed. Not that I’d win in a battle of strength against you _anyway_ since you’re the apex predator here, not me.”

Your words did nothing to loosen the stiff posture Michael’s body had squared into. That made your smile of triumphant elation instantly vanish. Was he upset? That hadn’t been your intention at all, and you made yourself a silent promise. There would be absolutely _no more_ intentionally sneaking up on Michael from that point forward.

“The stuff on the table is for you,” You shuffled awkwardly at the wordless scrutiny of those dark eyes of the mask glaring at you. Michael’s gaze, on top of his guarded stance, made the hairs at the back of your neck threaten to raise in one of many forms of a prey response. “I thought you might need it, since I haven’t really seen you with any personal stuff of your own. I, um...I hope you don’t mind.”

Michael slowly looked to the bags on the table.

All of that was for him...? Michael briefly wondered if there were some sort of pastries in there, as he’d taken the liberty of finishing off the cherry pie one of the neighbors had given you the day before.

Given how Michael hadn’t seen you fidget like this before, however, it crossed his mind that you might be trying to deceive him somehow.

You’d been diligent in taking care to keep away police, disrespectful kids, and nosy individuals so far. Though you were now technically taking care of him by providing food, those weren’t any solid reasons for Michael to even _remotely_ believe that you weren’t planning to drug him and hand him over to authorities at some point. This was why he never ate outside of his little hideaway tucked behind a wall down in the basement. Not that any of the food you cooked, which was a lot like what his mother used to make, seemed to be laced with anything.

Michael didn’t dare move towards the table when the prospect of deceit lingered. It almost appeared to be hesitation, but you’d already learned before then that he was _not_ a trusting creature. It was best not to rush Michael if he was unsure about something.

You knew what that mistrust in others was like and wanted to show Michael that you had no intentions to harm him without getting yourself killed in the process. You actually _wanted_ to help him out here; mainly for the sake of his health.

“Go ahead and take a look,” You gently urged as you hopped up on the nearest countertop. You let your heels lightly thump against the front of the old wood it as you swung your legs. It was a way for you to attempt to distract your mind from the horrid possibilities of Michael not liking your little ‘gifts’, but there was also excitement mixed in with your apprehension. Who knows, maybe this _wouldn’t_ end with you carved up like a holiday turkey or strung up by the light hanging low over your cheap kitchen table?

It was your turn to watch Michael for once. He seemed far more intent on initiating a staring contest than rifling through shopping bags. Unlike your cat, who was attempting to drag a bag off of the table. Silence enveloped the room once more when you and Michael settled with your gazes locked on one another.

Those two black sockets that remained transfixed upon nothing other than you made a shiver trace along the full length of your spine like thousands of little fingers.

“I’m serious, Michael,” You used his name in the hopes that it might make him more receptive to the situation. You weren’t sure if it would actually _work_ , not that it stopped you from trying. Michael didn’t have to trust you, but you at least wanted him to be more at ease than he currently was. “All of that is yours. I mean, I had some trouble picking things out, but...well, I’m sure you’ll understand when you see what it all is.”

This seemed to finally convince Michael to approach the table in his usual unhurried manner.

Your cat was smart enough to scamper away from the table upon seeing Michael getting closer. Instead of simply leaving the kitchen like in the weeks before, the massive ball of black fur sauntered over to rub against one of your feet with his usual grating meow directed at no one in particular.

Michael ignored your cat altogether and instead picked up the bag that had almost been pulled to the floor. The items within were unceremoniously dumped onto the table for inspection.

The first thing Michael held up was the new toothbrush. He looked towards you in silent demand of an explanation, which you gave with a smile. “I have more than enough toothpaste for the both of us, so you can brush your teeth whenever you need to.”

The toothbrush was cast aside and he didn’t even bother with the shaving supplies. Apparently Michael didn’t care for those and instead moved on to sift through the numerous sticks of deodorant you’d acquired for him.

“I got so many because I wasn’t sure what scent you would like best...” You decided to keep explaining the purpose of your ‘gifts’. Michael, obviously, didn’t care about those either as he dumped the contents of a second bag onto the table. It was the hair care products, body wash, and loofah. The loofah itself appeared to perplex Michael enough that he picked it up and tilt his head to study it more closely.

“Mn, those are so you don’t have to go around smelling like midnight jasmine and lavender bodywash. The loofah is yours, too. To help scrub off dead skin and get to those hard-to-reach places on your back.” The loofah was, as you bitterly expected, carelessly cast aside with the rest of the items on the table.

The last bag was emptied. You swallowed down the lump in your throat when Michael held up the bath robe. Those black sockets were directed towards you yet again. The movement of his head turning was much more slowly this time, and you had the distinct impression that what you said next would decide whether you lived through the next five minutes or not.

Reflexively, you deflated to make yourself appear smaller where you sat while your gaze darted from Michael’s masked face to the toes of his boots. This was a submissive behavior that was second nature to you, forged from the verbal abuse you’d suffered all of your life. While you were known to be somewhat of a walking contradiction when coupled with the many facets of your personality, becoming submissive and apologetic was a side not many people were aware of. Not unless they’d seen you behind closed doors or interacting with certain relatives.

Drawing in on yourself, turning into a being of nothing more than a personification of meek complacency, was one of first stages of your emotional self-defense mechanism. Not that Michael would have cared enough to notice such a thing.

Gaze still focused on the dried mud on his boots, you nibbled your lip and inhaled deeply. You would either die here or live to fuck up another day. Michael wasn’t your horrible family, but you still had to answer him.

“That’s, uh...for you to wear while I hand-wash the stains out of you coveralls...?” You barely managed to mutter loud enough for Michael to make out your nervous words over his echoed breathing within the mask.

Now, most people would be at least _mildly_ impressed by the level of thoughtfulness you put into all of this, but Michael?

Michael gave _zero_ fucks.

He simply moved around the kitchen table and opened the door to descend into the basement without so much as a glance toward you. Even as you hopped off of the counter and hurried after him, it was clear that Michael wasn’t going to put up with you or the presented hygiene products.

“Ah—Michael! Hey, come back here! You can’t live your life smelling like rotting corpses and B.O! What if you end up getting sick because you don’t wash yourself? _Michael!_ ” He was gone, embraced by the darkness of the basement depths by the time you reached the open door. You exhaled a heavy sigh and leaned against the door frame as you stared down into the inky blackness below. That went slightly better than you thought it would, but...

You felt a miserable smile tug up at the corners of your mouth. “Jeez, talk about stubborn...I’m still going to draw a warm bath for you before I crawl into bed tonight, okay?”

Silence.

“And you should probably start brushing your teeth before they rot out of your skull,” You added, hoping that Michael might still be listening to what you were saying. “Although I have no problem hogging all of those delicious pies Barbara bakes if you don’t.”

Not even that granted you any form of response that you could make out, and it was no secret to you that Michael favored the aforementioned pies. You were lucky if you could get a single piece out of one before he made off with the treat; pie tin and all.

The usual lack of any sort of feedback still stung a bit. You guessed you deserved it for basically sending him a message of _‘hey, you fucking reek, go bathe before my nose falls off'._ Michael didn’t care if this was all because you were trying to look after him. He was the one that controlled the state of your continued coexistence and didn’t have to do a goddamn thing if he didn’t want to.

All you were good for was bringing in food and paying for the utilities. It wasn't hard to believe that he didn’t want—or _need_ —you around for anything more than that. Maybe that was why you were taking his disregard towards your efforts a little more to heart today than you usually would.

Michael’s limited use for you had to be the only thing that was currently keeping you alive. You tried to keep the depression of such a situation away with that in mind. It helped to look at it as you actually being useful enough for such an obstinate serial killer to keep you around. That meant that you were good for at least _something_ , right?

Even if what you were doing was simple, like cooking larger meals and keeping your fridge and pantry well-stocked, you’d done them well enough to be allowed to live this long. At least now the neighborhood pets were a little safer with you keeping Michael’s hunger sated.

Speaking of which...

“Do you still want to try those Swedish meatballs for dinner?” You called down. It wasn’t like you were expecting to get an answer from the understandably cranky killer lurking somewhere in the darkness below, but you felt that it was only polite. Any direct input from Michael was valuable to you because it was so rare.

Much to your immense surprise, your question was actually granted a response. There was a _tap_ —a single sound of a knuckle knocked against what must have been the wooden handrail at the foot of the basement steps. Your smile immediately brightened.

“‘Kay. I’ll get started on that once I put everything in the bathroom.” Silence once more, but you weren’t bothered by this as much as you had been moments before. Michael had given you the only answer he felt necessary and that was somehow enough to pick your spirits back up a little. The bath thing could wait until later. Food, on the other hand, could not.

Not when your dumb cat was now seated between your feet and staring down into the basement. It was the best spot he could be grabbed by Michael for an afternoon snack.

Everything was settled once you’d dealt with Michael’s bathroom supplies and dinner. He opted for swiping his plate when you were distracted with finding a better radio station, which you weren’t surprised about. He was probably going to avoid you for a while after what you pulled since he hadn’t killed you at this point.

It was a good thing that you didn’t need to constantly interact with Michael in order to take care of his stubborn, stabby ass. That could either make things easier for you, or a hell of a lot harder depending on how long Michael was going to fight basic hygiene needs.

“Goodnight, Michael,” You called down the stairs a few hours later. Tomorrow was going to be your first full day shift at the hardware store, so you were going to turn in early for another night of potentially battling insomnia or waking up with your roommate standing over you again.

The same roommate whose form you could barely make out somewhere near the foot of the mostly redone stairs.

Michael was watching you brush your fingers through your hair when you spotted him. You paused to lean against the wall and try to get a better visual of something other than that haunting mask peering up at you from the darkness. He was breathing clearly enough, but continued to keep a greater distance tonight. This was probably his version of the cold shoulder.

You briefly wondered if the bathrobe was what bent Michael so out of shape. Not that you’d get an answer other than the sheer fact he wasn’t going to do anything he didn’t feel like doing. Who was going to argue with a man wielding a knife? ( _You_. The answer was _you_.)

“I drew a warm bath in case you might want one,” You informed Michael while trying not to imagine him snapping your neck or stabbing you in your sleep for daring to continue to act like you were his mother.

Despite the risk to toppling your already shaky state of safety when living with a man like Michael, this was something you weren’t planning on stopping until he proved capable of taking care of himself. You may have been taking care of things around the house, but in the end it was Michael who was in control—even now.

“I labeled everything that’s yours. That way you’ll be able to find your toothbrush if you decide to actually brush your teeth before you go to sleep.” The typical silence was all your efforts received as Michael stepped out of sight.

You guessed you deserved that one.

Huffing softly to yourself, you called down the stairs once more. You suspected that Michael hadn’t gone far and you weren’t exactly upset with him for being so set in his ways. It was easy to give him your usual bedtime wishes. “Sweet dreams when you get to it.”

You hefted your large cat up into your arms and headed into your bedroom without waiting for a response this time. Settling under your blankets after making sure your bedroom door was closed, you let out a soft sigh. You didn’t bother with locking the door anymore at this point since you didn’t want it broken if Michael got the urge to watch you sleeping again.

It took a few moments to slow your breathing and let the sounds of the old house eventually lull you to sleep.

Everything in the bathroom was untouched when morning came. You didn’t expect anything less from the walking biohazard somewhere in or around the house, but the waste of water was a bit annoying. Honestly, Michael was acting like a _child!_

Fine then.

If Michael was going to be an ass about this, then _so could you_.

We’ll see who outlasted who in this little battle composed mostly of passive-aggressiveness. Either one of you would cave, or he’d get fed up enough to finally kill you.

Fun, right?

“I’m going to be home later than usual today!” You spoke loudly while hurrying down the stairs. You were pulling your hair back from your face in a small, messy bun while you searched for your glasses. The house was as silent as a tomb.

Michael might have left some time in the night to stalk his next victim. This wasn’t unusual when he seemed to get a certain level of agitation in his system and, as much as you tried not to think about it, you always hoped he would come back safe. Preferably without any police or corpses in tow.

However, if he _was_ still in the house and just avoiding you, then you wanted to keep him updated on your activity work-wise. Doing so was something else that appeared to abate Michael in some bizarre way. It certainly seemed to be the reason you stopped seeing glimpses of him out in town after you settled into the routine of telling him your work hours every day.

“I’ve got a full shift today and won’t be back until after the store closes. I’ll make it up to you by getting some meat lovers pizza on the way home, okay?” You slipped your glasses on after finding them on the kitchen table and headed to the front door to grab a light hoodie. The sun was barely creeping up over the horizon and it would still be considerably colder out.

Such an early hour might explain why there continued to be no sign of Michael’s presence while you got ready. Maybe he was sleeping wherever the hell he hid down in the basement.

 _If_ he slept.

That was a whole different issue you were going to have to figure out after the battle of the bath was over.

You _really_ hoped he had a mattress to rest on. With pillows. And blankets. The basement could get cold at night, so you had the right to worry at least a _little_ bit.

“I’m headed out now,” You’re voice filled the stagnant atmosphere of the house as you stepped out the door and placed your keys into the lock. “I drew you another bath and the toothpaste is in the top left hand bathroom drawer when you need it! _Bye!_ ”

With that, you closed and locked the front door in record time before hightailing it to your car. Faint movement of the kitchen curtains while your cat was seated in the living room window let you know that Michael had heard you perfectly clear. Good, maybe he’d actually feel more comfortable about making use of the bath while you were at work.

It wasn’t likely, but you could _hope_ , dammit!

The day went by slowly. This was partially due to you fretting over everything and nothing, and swearing that you’d caught glimpses of Michael lurking outside of the hardware store. _Twice_.

Was he trying to intimidate you into leaving him alone about his personal hygiene?

You wouldn’t put it past him. Michael was an asshole in that regard.

However, given that you knew you could be highly paranoid—predominantly because of, well, _everything_ —you tried to brush it off and go about your work day like nothing was bothering you. Without letting your guard down _too_ much, of course.

You worked in a hardware store and could think of a number of ways someone could be killed by the various products sold there. Michael was usually the cause for such thoughts, often whenever you passed the display case full of every sort of knife imaginable.

On the upside, you were able to eventually distract yourself when the town’s old folks hobbled in for the free coffee. They were great at giving you advice on any of your more harrowing renovation attempts.

Still, the hours oozed by like molasses. It was a relief when closing time came. You were actually looking forward to night two of the passive-aggressive siege upon Michael’s lack of bathing capabilities. You might just give the stairs a break and start in on repainting the back wall of the living room before bed.

First thing first—sating Michael with some good ol’ Pizza Hut.

“I’m home, and I brought the pizza!” You announced in the typical manner. It vaguely occurred to you that you might have beaten your roommate home if he’d decided to keep stalking you throughout the day. The thought was chased away when you spotted Michael lurking in the hall that led to the back door as you were setting the boxes of fresh pizza on the kitchen table.

There was no time to properly greet him before there was a knock at the front door.

You’d ended up developing a fear that it was the police coming to take down Michael whenever someone came to the door these days. It hadn’t turned out that way so far, but your anxiety enjoyed making you miserable with worry anyway. You had to push it back as best you could while reminding yourself that it could be a number of people other than law enforcement officers.

True to the guess that _wasn’t_ paranoia-based, it was just your neighbor Barbara deciding to swing by with another apology pie.

She was the one who’d called the cops after hearing your shriek upon first glimpsing Michael about a month and a half ago. The poor woman was having a hard time forgiving herself for creating such a hassle for you. Not that you were ever mad at her in the first place. At least someone cared.

“I still feel like a silly old lady for jumping to conclusions like that, but with the history of the house...well, I didn’t want to take any chances,” Barbara admitted. This was the dozenth time you’d had this conversation and as all the times before, she refused to go further than the porch.

Knowing who was waiting just inside the house? Yeah, you didn’t blame her.

You offered a reassuring smile when you saw her glancing towards your heavily curtained windows, “I understand, and, as much as I love your pies, you don’t have to keep baking so many of them. I was never mad about the cops showing up.”

No, you were more concerned about the serial killer you had no doubt was lurking in one of the darkened rooms to watch you through the curtains. Michael was a bit like you in how he wasn’t fond of unexpected guests. It didn’t matter if they were neighbors or complete strangers.

You could feel his gaze locked on you and Barbara from somewhere unseen within the first few minutes of stepping out of the house. The sensation never ceased to make your hairs threaten to stand on end. You could allow yourself to shiver in front of Barbara thanks to the colder temperatures outside.

The spring air was cool with a gentle breeze carrying the chilling bite of dusk to any exposed skin. Contrasted with the warm pie you held close as you stood beside your elderly neighbor on your mostly termite-eaten porch, the nip of oncoming night caused your arms to prickle with goosebumps. The hair along your limbs and the back of your neck took the chance to raise painfully while your spine tingled in the need to give more than a restrained shudder.

“You’re such a kind girl. Not many people are willing to put up with an old woman who frets about everything,” Barbara continued without noticing how your body was reacting to a mixture of a cold spring night and being spied on by your roommate. She seemed to be feeling Michael gaze as well, albeit subconsciously as she wrapped her shawl around herself and lowered her voice. “But they never caught him, you know.”

Oh yeah, you _knew_.

Not that you were going to tell Barbara. Poor thing already looked like she was one big scare away from a heart attack most of the time. If she saw Michael now, then the results would be fatal—whether the heart attack killed her before a knife to the chest did or not.

Barbara, much to your relief, decided not to stay much longer after she reinformed you of the babysitter murders Michael was responsible for before he managed to give police the slip. You’d heard it enough times, as well as word about the victims the Shape of Haddonfield supposedly continued to claim to this very day.

“You take care of yourself, dear,” Barbara said in a grandmotherly manner with her knitted shawl still pulled tight around her shoulders.

“Kind of hard when I’m living with one of the most infuriating creatures on the planet, but I’ll try.” You smiled. It was mostly to yourself rather than her kindness, and the grin was bordering on a hint of wryness.

Barbara laughed due to thinking you meant your cat. You didn’t correct her assumption, bidding her a final farewell for the evening and heading inside with the pie. The door was locked firmly behind you out of habit and your gaze turned towards your left.

The outline of Michael’s figure could be seen lingering near the windows of the dark living room. His breathing was steady, albeit somewhat heavier than usual beneath the mask. He remained motionless as that blank visage peered out at you through the darkness, just like the night before. Something seemed a little...off with how he was breathing and holding himself compared to what you were used to.

You would dare to say that Michael was visibly restless compared to yesterday. Agitated, even, and that wasn't a good thing.

It was hard to tell when he was choosing to remain cloaked in shadows. The sound of a small group of kids riding by on their bikes caused Michael to peek through the curtain once more.

He was probably making sure it wasn’t the little graffiti gang that continued to torment the side of your poor house numerous times a week. Michael was often the one who alerted you to their presence if you hadn’t heard them first, but it didn’t seem like it was local delinquents he was looking at.

“...Don’t kill the neighbor, okay? She can’t bake us pies anymore if she’s dead.” You found yourself saying after the sudden urge to do so on Barbara’s behalf. Michael’s attention remained trained on whatever was going on in the street, making you shift uncomfortably. “It...it’s chocolate pecan pie this time, and it’s still warm. Are you going to want this before you get into the pizza...?”

His lack of walking away, simply turning his head to watch you again, sort of gave you an answer. At least he was still responding to you.

“I’ll take that a yes. Two scoops of Cool Whip on the top, right?” You moved to the kitchen to prepare the dessert. Michael followed, but only to the doorway. It seemed that pie was a higher priority to him than giving you the cold shoulder for trying to mother him so much.

Or so you thought for about a second before Michael turned away from the kitchen and vanished from your sight entirely. You still heard his movements, right up to the point he left the house and closed the back door behind himself.

“...I guess not...” You mumbled. There was a high chance that someone was going to die or disappear entirely tonight and you tried your best not to think about it. You prayed Barbara’s history of providing pies, cakes, and the occasional casserole would keep her safe. You wanted to call and warn her to get out of town before she got hurt, but—

You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. It would direct the authorities attention to Michael whereabouts and...you didn’t want that.

You didn’t _want_ him to be hunted down like an animal once his location in Haddonfield was discovered. Some would argue that Michael deserved it and maybe he did, but you wouldn’t let it happen because of you.

This left you entirely unable to do _anything_.

Silently cursing yourself for caring too damn much about a _serial killer_ , you leaned back against the refrigerator and slid down to the floor. You fell to lay on your side while you pulled your knees up to your chest and stared blankly across the kitchen floor.

The pie remained untouched as despair flooded your system and settled there like molten lead.

You didn’t cry when the misery solidified in your veins.

Tears hardly ever fell past your lashes due how you’d been treated in the past. The need to cry was still there, the salt of the building fluid still stung your eyes during each moment of overloading emotions, but the tears would never break free. Not even now, when you felt so utterly worthless while you curled further into a fetal position.

You must have stayed there on the kitchen floor for a few hours. Your cat came in to lay beside you at some point. He meowed and rubbed his head anywhere he could until you finally pulled him close and ran your hands through his long, silky fur. It was a small comfort.

His loud purrs were enough to give you the strength to get up.

You had work again the next morning. Sleeping on the crappy old linoleum floor you had yet to replace wasn’t a good idea if you didn’t want a sore back when you woke up. Much like all of the other choices you’d made so far that week.

It might actually be better just to skip the proverbial foreplay and get Michael to end your life sooner. You seemed to be doing a pretty good job of that so far if he’d gotten so irritated with you that he needed to go out and shank some poor person somewhere.

“I’m a fucking mess,” You mumbled through a sigh and got a meow from the giant black mass hogging a majority of your bed and blankets. Most of the process of getting ready for bed was a blur, but you somehow managed it well enough to find yourself staring at the faint patterns of moonlight that danced across your bedroom ceiling.

You really needed to repaint that nasty water damage stain over the closet door. And the window.

And your entire life, really.

…

It was going to be a _long_ night.

True to your insomniatic nature, you spent what must have been over half the night tossing and turning. Your degrading thoughts were relentless tonight; a lot more insistent than usual about how you were an absolutely useless waste of space. It didn’t help that your cat would meow at you in annoyance every time you had to roll into a more comfortable position.

When it got to the point you were contemplating just getting up and working on one of your many house repair projects, you sighed with irritation and rolled onto your right side—

—only to choke on a scream.

There, standing statuesque above you in the shifting moonlight, was Michael.

How you hadn’t heard his breathing when he came in was beyond you. You also didn’t know how long he’d been _looming_ there, but you could certainly see one sleeve of his coveralls was partially torn at the shoulder seam. He had a thick, dark liquid coating his hands. There could be no doubt that it was blood that was dripped from his lax, knifeless fists to splatter against the bare wood of your bedroom floor. Good thing you’d decided against putting carpet down.

That was ignored when you let your sleep-deprived irritation drive a glare onto your fatigued expression.

“ _Dammit_ , Michael! You scared the—” Words stopped the moment you caught sight of on his right hand. Or, in particular, the index finger of his right hand. The finger that was bent to the side at a completely impossible right angle at the base knuckle. You were quick to scramble out of your bed when you registered that it was an injury. “Oh my gods, are you okay!?”

The fact Michael’s posture immediately became rigid as you ran up to him went unnoticed in your frantic state. You were more concerned with the fact that, yes, his finger was most certainly bent at a wrong angle. You also could see that, on the skin where the coverall sleeve no longer covered the top of his left shoulder and part of his upper arm, were three deep lacerations.

Panic mode: _activated_.

“Y-your hand! Fingers aren’t supposed to _bend_ like that—and your _shoulder_ is— _fucking_ — _shit_ — _ **fuck**_ —this isn’t _good—!_ ” You were freaking out and entirely unsure of what to do. Was Michael’s finger dislocated? _Broken?_ It wasn’t like you could take him to a hospital if it was! And the gashes on his shoulder might needed _stitches!_

Michael, ignoring your mounting distress, glanced down to his hand at the mention of an oddly bent finger.

Ah.

That explained why that particular finger was tingling and kind of cold.

His last victim had been quite a bother to keep down. Her boyfriend had been the one to do damage to his shoulder with some sort of gardening tool, but Michael suspected that it was the girl who snapped his finger like that. She’d been attempting to pry his fingers from the handle of his knife, even after he’d plunged it into her gut. The girl hadn’t given up the fight until the seventh or eighth stab; whichever one had punctured her diaphragm first.

Pursing his lips in a mild grimace of annoyance, Michael wasted no time in reaching down and popping his finger back into proper alignment. His only indication of any sort of discomfort was the faint grunt muffled beneath his mask.

You jolted back from the horrendous cracking sound the digit gave, your eyes wide and jaw slack. Was...was it supposed to sound like that? You were pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to sound like that!

“I— _you_ —” You had to stop yourself and take in a number of deep, quivering breaths as you ran a hand through your sleep-tousled hair. Freaking out wasn’t going to help anything and, as hard as it was to not let your anxiety just run with it, you needed to do something other than panic.

Michael had reset his finger, which was good. In a way. From what little knowledge you had on broken or dislocated fingers, you knew that you could bind it to the digit next to it to help the muscles heal properly.

“Okay...okay, we can handle this. I just...need my first aid kit. The big one is in the kitchen.” You gently took hold of Michael’s uninjured hand and started heading for the door. You did well in ignoring the sickening feeling of cold blood getting on your skin. That was, at least, until the sticky sludge caused your grip to slip when Michael refused to budge.

You glanced over your shoulder and into the black sockets of his blood-flecked mask. His was still as tense as could be. An aftereffect of what he’d been doing before he came home...?

There was no way to be sure, but you wanted— _needed_ —to tend to his wounds. Seeing as you couldn’t just throw him over your shoulder and run him down to the kitchen, you had to somehow get Michael to relax enough to follow you willingly.

You slipped both of your hands around his good hand this time. It was careful and far more gently than moments before and  Michael tensed up _more_ , if that was even possible. Seeing this thanks to the moonlight, you made a risky split-second decision.

You began to rub circles over his scarred knuckles.

“It’s alright, Michael,” You said and tried to reassure him with a gentle smile. “I’m going to take care of you.”

There was a long moment of deliberation before Michael allowed himself to relax. His shoulders sagged as the tension fled from him, heartbeat slowing as your touch soothed the final traces of adrenaline from his system. The way your fingers grazed against his skin, smearing cool, clotted blood, was a pleasant sensation. It made his chest squeeze softly.

Wordlessly, you stepped towards the door once more. It felt like a fucking _miracle_ when Michael relented and actually followed you all the way down to the kitchen.

You kept lightly rubbing the back of Michael’s hand with your thumb while you led him down the stairs. Your touch seemed to be what was making him compliant, so you were more than willing to keep the small massage up. Beneath all of the blood that had clotted enough to feel like syrup, the callouses on Michael’s hand were evident.

You turned the overhead light of the stove on once you were in the kitchen. It was bright enough for you to work with and not alert nosy neighbors that you were up at an ungodly hour again. They’d never know it was because your nationally wanted roommate needed medical attention after a night of _killing people_ , but you didn’t want to hear any random remarks about having trouble sleeping.

If none of your neighbors had be killed tonight, that was.

“I’m going to wash your hand off so I can tape the finger you dislocated...or _broke_...to the finger next to it,” You explained as you turned the faucet on and waited for the water to warm up a bit. Michael had his head tilt to the side when you glanced up at him, as if he didn’t understand your reasoning behind needing to bind two fingers together. You smiled again, “The muscles should heal better if I use your middle finger as a splint for the one you just popped back into place. It’s your dominate hand, so I want to make sure you can keep using it by doing this right.”

He remained silent. You cupped his right wrist to guide his hand under the stream of water once you were content with the temperature. Michael smelled strongly of the blood you noticed was soaked into the cuffs of his sleeves and the upper half of his coveralls. It sort of made you a little light-headed, but you pushed that aside as you grabbed some soap and very gently lathered up his large hand.

“Will you let me clean the cuts on your shoulder, too?” You decided to ask. Crimson suds swirled down the drain of the sink.

Pausing in washing the soapy blood away, you looked up just in time to see...no hint of a response. You’d deal with that once you got there, you supposed. Focusing on one thing at a time would help to keep you from becoming overwhelmed.

 _Unfortunately_ , as the universe forever attempted to fuck you over every chance it got, the sour smell of the blood coming from Michael as he towered over you was beginning to make you feel a little unsteady. The haziness seeping into your senses wasn’t normal—not for you. This was something you were entirely unfamiliar with.

While your monkey brain was screaming _‘run!’_ , your body was ignoring it. In fact, your nerves were beginning to tingle as the fine hairs along your body rose. It was a dizzying sensation you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

It wasn’t really arousal, thank the gods, but you felt as if the sickly metallic scent that pervaded your senses was intoxicating you. It was getting increasingly harder to think straight.

 _That could have been **my** blood on him tonight_, The rational part of your brain fought to keep above the haze. It was a warning to snap out of the fast approaching delirium before something horrible happened.

Whatever portion of your brain that was drunk on the mixture of blood, dirt, and sweat that was currently Michael’s heady scent simply sighed contentedly. _But why would I care? He could stab be right here and now and I just might thank him for it. Navy blue coveralls and semi-fresh blood is a **really** good look on him..._

Hold up, _what?_

Did you _seriously_ just think that?

_What the hell, brain!?_

You managed to pull yourself back from whatever unholy precipice you were about to plunge over, somewhat unnerved with yourself. Michael’s injuries were more important to you than the bizarre state your body was trying to fall into.

Meanwhile, Michael seemed to be only mildly inconvenienced with the entire situation.

He hadn’t outwardly acknowledged how you’d begun to go into a daze, but Michael saw your lashes flutter briefly above your flushing cheeks. His mask hid how his gaze focused upon your face. Not that you were in the right state of mind to notice any shift in his demeanor.

Michael studied your round face and he felt, more than saw, how a shakey breath brought a quiver to your smaller body in a way that threatened to quicken his own breathing. A line within yourself was surely about to be crossed, but you’d recollected yourself rather than giving in to whatever was attempting to lure you away from reality. Michael briefly wondered what would have happened if you’d just kept going.

What would have become of this situation if you simply relented to the unknown pull upon you? Would you have grown faint? Lost full consciousness?

Or would you have descended into a state obscene enough that the voices would finally demand that he claim you with his blade?

The twinge in Michael’s lower stomach was far too faint to tell if he was becoming aroused from the thought of you writhing within his powerful grasp. Not even the mental image of you painted in your own blood called forth the murmur of the temporarily sated voices. He still had to wait a bit longer, it seemed. No matter.

You, entirely unaware of any of the gruesome thoughts in Michael’s mind, continued to rinse his hand free of as much blood as you could manage.

“I’m not hurting you at all, am I...?” You asked softly. Michael merely stared as he kept his enigmatic silence, but wasn’t showing any of the usual signs of pain or discomfort. He was, amazingly, about as relaxed as you’d ever seen him before. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. “Ha, of course not. All of this is probably just annoying you, more than anything.”

_Annoyed?_

Michael’s head canted as he took the time to think about it.

No, he wasn’t annoyed with this. It wasn’t something he was used to, being so genuinely fussed over, that was, but he preferred this over you continually harassing him about taking a bath. _That_ was annoying. Your nagging was similar to a little mosquito or fly buzzing about his head, but this? This was different. This was...tolerable.

It reminded Michael of when he was a boy. He’d sometimes scuff an elbow or knee, and his mother would fret and flit about like a butterfly as she tended to whatever little injuries he got from playing. She would clean his wounds with a wash cloth as gently as she could, let Michael pick out what colorfully patterned band-aid he wanted, and then she would kiss the freshly bandaged scrape to make sure it would heal faster. Sometimes, if Michael had made a big show of being hurt, he would be taken out for some ice cream.

You were not his mother, but your nurturing nature was just as strong as hers. Your hands were a littler softer and warmer than Michael remembered his mother’s being...

While he didn’t miss his mother in a traditional sense, the parallels of reality and memory kept the killer in Michael, those all-consuming urges, settled and mostly silent. It wouldn’t be for long, perhaps only a day or two, but the rare state of tranquility was welcomed.

Michael was tempted to drift off into the depths of his mind like he normally would after a successful hunt, yet found himself refraining from doing so. He wanted to keep watching how your hands worked to delicately dry his clean one with the only dish towel you owned.

You had gained a certain expression that Michael found fascinating. It was a look that often softened the features of your face whenever you were focused on making your necklaces or working on some part of the house. You always put a part of yourself into anything you made or fixed and, while Michael didn’t know that was what this particular countenance meant, the drooping of your eyelids and slight parting of your full lips never ceased to draw his attention.

“Now comes the fun part,” You muttered to yourself before ducking under the kitchen sink in search of your larger first aid kit. You kept it in a tote for temporary storage and thankfully didn’t need a light to find the large multi-pocketed bag.

Moving the dish strainer out of the way in order to set the first aid kit on the counter, you went searching for some tape. You didn’t think to check if Michael was going to be alright with you just whipping out what you sometimes called your bag of tricks. You had the knowledge that Michael spent most of his life in a sanitarium, but were far to focused on finding what you needed in order to help him.

Luckily for _you_ , Michael was a nosy fucker and had already rifled through the very bag you were still digging around in. He knew that there was nothing in there that he had to be cautious of. All this particular first aid kit had was an assortment of bandages, gauze, alcohol swabs, and tape that could easily be torn through.

“Aha, _there_ it is!” You exclaimed in triumph as you held the roll of adhesive tape up over your head like it was some sort of prize. Michael’s head tilt to the other side at your behavior, causing your face to flush pink. You cleared your throat and reached for his clean hand. “Now, I’m no professional, but I _think_ I can tape these in a way that will still let you hold things without any problem.”

Michael allowed you to do so, forever attentive of your actions. You felt rather proud of yourself for only using two strips of the adhesive tape to get the job done and decided to encourage him to test the range of movement. Your hand wrapped around his significantly larger one, attempting to ease the bound fingers to form a loose fist.

Michael pulled his hand from yours before curling the calloused digits into a firm fist and holding it there for a few seconds, relaxing his hand once more. He’d be able to hold his knife even with his fingers taped together like this. Good.

You were turning out to be more useful than Michael first gave you credit for.

“Better?” You asked, face lighting up when Michael glanced down at you. To him, you almost looked like a puppy that was expecting some sort of treat for properly executing a trick. Michael, of course, would give you nothing. Not even so much as a confirmation nod as he went back to flexing his right hand.

Surprisingly enough, you weren’t bothered by this. Michael hadn’t killed you during the proceedings, so you must have done well enough that he approved. In his own way. _You hoped._

“Now that _that’s_ done, I’m going to look at your arm, okay? Your coveralls look like a lost cause and I’ll most likely need to stitch those cuts closed, but I have the perfect needle and thread for the—” Michael took a step back when you reached up for his shoulder. You stilled, gaze shooting to his masked face in silent question and the somewhat subconscious fear that you may or may not be taking your few final breaths.

He let you take care of his finger with no problems once you’d brought him into the kitchen, so why was he acting up now...?

You didn’t know, but it didn’t look like he was going to let you take care of the large, crusting gashes. They would have looked like cat scratches if it wasn’t for their size and severity. Whatever inflicted the wounds did so viciously and resulted in an injury that was _not_ something you were willing to just leave Michael to wander off to most likely ignore.

As horrible as it sounded, _frighteningly_ so, you didn’t _care_ if Michael’s current state was the result of someone fighting for their life against his murderous intent. All you cared about was that Michael was properly tended to.

Personal care wasn’t anywhere on Michael’s list of priorities, and you were too caring a person to just let him keep living his life like that. You probably should have been concerned with how you were having periods of not really bothering with your safety when it came to taking care of the notorious Shape of Haddonfield.

Then again, when it came to self-care, you knew you weren’t really one to talk.

You’d been trained from an early age to not bother with your own state of well-being. It seemed unavoidable after a life of your worth constantly being crushed. Prior years of therapy had been helping you make some headway in regaining what your _family_ had stripped you of, but you still had a long way to go.

There was one thing your abusers were never able to break you of, and that was your compassionate nature.

That very nature was sure to get you killed one day, but you continued to follow your heart on this one. You weren’t going to let fear force you back, to become meek in the face of any potential danger. You were going to treat Michael’s wounds even if you had to bribe him just to let you do so!

“Michael...” You said slowly and stepped closer to reached up for his shoulder once more. You moved as if you were trying to sooth a wounded animal and he didn’t move away this time. It became clear why when Michael’s right hand was clamped around your throat before you ever had the chance release a startled scream. You hands flew up to futilely tug and scratch at his immovable wrist.

Michael’s hold was loose enough to allow you to breathe in short, hissing breaths, but the strength behind his grip was just as terrifying as it was painful. How the _hell_ was he able to keep you in such a solid hold with his recently injured index finger as part of the equation!? Logically, the strength of the digit should have been lessened due to the trauma it suffered, _right!?_

There was a dampness clinging to Michael’s skin from when you washed and towel-dried his hand minutes before, too, but _that_ didn’t seem to hinder his grasp either. Michael’s hand wasn’t budging a fucking _millimeter_.

You couldn’t keep down the whimper that was brought on by such a relentless and bruising hold. Michael could snap your neck like a pretzel stick if he wanted to. A violent shudder wracked your terror-stricken body when the fingers that had settled firmly against the back of your neck gave a threatening twitch.

The fight to free yourself from suffering Michael’s wrath came to an end with that very twitch. Your own fingers halted against the newest set of blunt scratches his wrist now adorned and you watched him with wide eyes, waiting for that final sensation of pressure that would spell out your demise.

It didn’t come.

You weren’t being hauled up by your throat to the point that your feet couldn’t touch the ground and not a single hot white starburst of pain blossomed through your body to indicate that you were being slammed back against the counter, a wall, or the basement door. Michael was just staring you down from behind his mask as he held you fast, holding you in place with a single hand large enough that it almost wrapped around your neck entirely. You were still being _choked_ , but not enough to put a complete stop to your shallow breaths.

Was...was this Michael being merciful enough to warn you that you’d just cracked thin ice...?

If it was, then it was a warning you were disturbingly reluctant to heed even with your life quite literally in the palm of his hand.

You didn’t want to leave him alone when he had such deep wounds, but the deadly shift sent your panicked mind racing to figure out how the hell you could handle this without dying. It was pretty hard when you were one good squeeze away from losing all oxygen privileges. You idly wondered if Michael could feel your erratic pulse pounding out a frantic SOS, but you couldn’t focus on that thought for long.

There had to be _something_ you could come up with to get him to let go of your throat on his own. You also wanted to figure out where you made the grave misstep that had led to this current predicament.

Michael had been amazingly indulgent of you trying to patch him up him before then, so there was no reason for him to...

_The stitches._

Realization hit you like a bullet train, _hard_ —hard enough that you ended up gasping. The sharp intake of air whistled a little as it went down your agonizingly restricted airway.

Michael had been fine until you mentioned the possibility of needing to stitch him up. Stitching injuries up at home meant that there would be no pain relief as a needle and thread was strung through raw flesh. It was only natural that Michael wasn’t about to allow you to go anywhere near him with the intent to later use something sharp.

He was a predator. An _injured_ predator, no less. If any stabbing was going to occur, it was going to be from _him_.

You recalled learning about how Michael had been institutionalized since he was six and suspected that was potentially the answer for his sudden violence towards you. It was no secret that those society deemed mentally ill were treated horribly; be them an inpatient, or and outpatient like yourself.

There was no telling was sort of medication they gave him, if they decided to study him like some sort of lab rat, or if he was simply kept under constant sedation all of those years.

He brutally stabbed his sister to death when he was only _six years old_. There must have been at least _one_ psychologist or doctor out there who would have relished the chance to figure out how someone like Michael ticked. Sometimes even you found yourself wanting to know exactly what he was thinking.

The only difference between you and some quack was that your desire to know what went on in Michael’s head was driven by how you felt the need to make as peaceful, as _stable_ , an environment that you could manage for the both of you.

Which you were now unintentionally fucking up. _Big time._

Things between you and Michael needed to regain a state of calm before he crushed your trachea like a handful of freaking Pixy Stix. All you could think to do was pray to the gods that you were somehow able to end this situation safely.

“I’m sorry,” You found yourself whispering, swallowing back the sting of pain caused by the effort to apologize and not loose any more of your decreasing levels of oxygen.

Normally the apologies that flowed from your lips were made to protect yourself when you didn’t know what else to do when faced with every little thing that had gone wrong. Every little thing you always needlessly took the blame for.

When you apologized to Michael, however, even with how he was still choking you...compared to every other other person you said those two words to, you didn’t feel like you were apologizing in order to retreat into the safety of your unseen shell.

There was no need to avert your gaze from whatever was peering out at you from beneath that pale mask. Not this time.

You would later come to realize that apologizing to Michael was leaving yourself open and vulnerable in a way that you’d never let any other person see before. It was an ill-advised action that had left your most vital aspects exposed in a manner akin to just _begging_ for your heart to be run through with a knife.

“You don’t want me to stitch your wounds shut, right...?” You struggled to speak once more through your involuntary wheezing and, for the briefest of moments, thought that you felt his grip loosen ever so slightly. You were quick to convince yourself that you were simply imagining things. It made it easier to just force yourself to ignore the building agony of prolonged pressure against the front of your throat.

You were starting to cough at random intervals, your head hurt, and an unfamiliar burning sensation was spreading across your cheeks and forehead as the amount of air that made it down to your lungs continued to gradually lessen. The seconds ticking by were punctuated by each heartbeat that sent blood pounding alarm bells against your eardrums.

You found yourself trying to think of what the next words to leave your mouth would be. They might just be your last.

Michael didn’t care that you thought his decision to not let you touch him further was due to mentioning stitches. You weren’t right, but...you weren’t exactly wrong, either.

As slight as it was, there were traces of an agitating sort of unease that Michael was getting at the thought of anyone coming at him with a deceivingly small instrument like a needle. He’d gotten more than enough encounters with needles— _fingers flicking against glass syringes to be rid of air bubbles, singular, glistening dewdrops balanced precariously atop sharp, minuscule silver points_ —at Smith’s Grove.

Michael cared far less back then, during his days in captivity. Things like that tended to go unnoticed when someone had nothing better to do than spend nearly every waking hour living within the depths of their own mind.

“I didn’t mean...to upset you...” You coughed a couple of times, but attempted to kept your wavering gaze focused on the seemingly bottomless pits from which Michael studied you.

Goosefleshed skin had begun to feel like it was trying to crawl right off your trembling body. Apparently your gradually-starving brain was able to sense that he was staring much more intently now.

Apologizing didn’t effect Michael, but no one had ever expressed genuine remorse for having potentially made him angry. It made him feel curious, although the exact focal point of this particular curiosity was unclear.

Was it how you treated him? How someone as small and as weak as you interacted with him, a hollow entity that merely took the shape of a man, differently than anyone else ever bothered to?

Perhaps.

What tickled Michael’s renewed interest must have been the same curiosity that kept the urges from being focused on you.

That’s right; contrary to what you believed, it _wasn’t_ the offer of food that made Michael spare you.

Free food, the house no longer being one good windy day away from collapsing, and functioning utilities were merely minor benefits of his decision to allow you to live. Yes, Michael was going to take full advantage of the things you provided, but only until the voices—the ever-maddening purpose, the all-consuming _urge_ —deemed that he was finished with you.

“W-will you at least let me clean the cu—“ Another cough agitated your constricted airway, “—uts...?” The breathless quest for his permission, voice growing strained and lips beginning to tint the faintest hue of blue, kept Michael’s attention on how much effort it was taking you to speak to him. It was fascinating to him.

You lowered your hands away from the one Michael was still moments away from strangling you with. Your hands falling uselessly to your sides caused a biting sting shooting across your shoulders and sides of your neck. This drew a soft hiss from between your clenching teeth. You didn’t need any reminders that you were still at Michael’s volatile mercy.

You were also now aware that you couldn’t feel part of one of your cheeks.

“And c-could you...could you please let go of me now...? My face is going n-numb,” You whimpered when all your request did was bring the pressure of those deadly fingers squeezing down. It took everything you had to refrain from throwing yourself backwards in an attempt to pull free of Michael’s hold.

Looks like this was really going to be how your story ended; choked to death by The Shape.

You wished you had your broom or camping machete, but the thought was fleeting. You only found yourself closing your eyes and letting your head fall back as much as it was able to.

There was nothing left to do this time. Nothing other than accepting your fate to be the victim you had been all of your life. To think that you escaped one hell, only to end up dying in a different one.

Although...

You _might_ manage to get one last hit in by kneeing Michael in the groin before the life was throttled out of you completely. It could be your final hoorah—the last of what little fire was left in you from this short, troubled life.

You could still put up a fight even though you accepted that you were going to die here, right?

Yes. Yes, you could.

You _would_.

At least then you could die knowing that you’d made _damn_ sure the Shape of Haddonfield no longer had a functioning set of testicles.

One swift kick; that’s all it would take. Just reel your leg back and—

A wave of relief unexpectedly crashed into you when Michael decided to comply with your pitiful plea to be let go.

It was sudden, starting when you felt the fingers that were digging into your soft flesh abandon their previous task, but the rush of elation made you feel delirious. Hell, you didn’t even care about just how bruised your neck was going to be later.

Michael’s grip was slow to slacken enough to pull away, allowing you to stumble back a few steps and greedily start sucking in much-needed air between bouts of uncontrolled coughing. You were thanking any and _every_ deity that might be listening that you were still alive.

Much to your mild dismay, your face had, indeed, entered the early stages of numbness. There was certain to be that unbearable static tingling coming in the next minute or so but _fuck it_. You were _alive!_

“Thank you,” You rasped around your dissipating hacking while tenderly massaging your neck to somehow ease the way the skin was burning. It felt like your head had turned into a fishbowl with a giant barracuda swimming in tight circles within it.

Well, now you could check ‘get choked by a serial killer’ off your non-existent bucket list. _Oof_.

Against the surfacing desire to get away from Michael now that you were free of his grasp, you turned your attention back to his lacerated shoulder. He just nearly killed your dumb ass and you were _still_ worried about him more than you allowed yourself to be about your own state of well-being.

You _really_ needed to keep working on maintaining a healthy level self-worth. Attempting meditation with a piece of rose quartz might be a good idea. Smoky quartz, too; to help clear the negativity swirling in the air, as well as your insides.

It was hard to tell if this negativity was coming from you, Michael, or both.

You watched him watching you, unsure if this was now some sort of Mexican standoff or just your anxiety trying to worm back to the surface. Michael’s posture was stiff, poised to put a stop any other attempts you might make to get near him. That or he was waiting to snatch you up again if you decided to bolt after he just choked you. Running would have been the smart thing to do in this situation.

Yet all you did was lean one hip against the counter and continue to gently massage your abused neck. Your eyes never left Michael’s imposing form, darting between his mask and bloody shoulder.

“So...am I allowed to clean your arm up, or...?” You decided to ask now that your coughing and gasping had mostly died down. The sandpaper feeling in your throat remained, as did the feeble hoarseness to your voice. There was no telling how long that would last.

Michael’s response to your question was to march right past you without so much as a tilt of the head.

Well _that_ was an unmistakable _‘fuck no’_ if you ever saw one.

You didn’t move to follow him to the basement door this time. It was better to keep a safe distance for now, no matter how worried you still were about his untreated injuries. There were probably bruises already blossoming along your delicate throat like some twisted type of necklace and you didn’t want to add onto those any time soon.

“I’ll call in sick to work so that I can stay here with you today,” You tried to speak clearly, but talking so much after the trauma you just suffered hurt. You weren’t even sure that Michael had been able to hear you until he paused on the top step of the basement stairs. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth despite the fear firmly pitted in your stomach. “I don’t want you to be home alone when you’re injured like this...”

Your cat meowed loudly from the kitchen entrance, causing you to glanced over to his large yellow eyes and give a soft, painfully croaked chuckle.

“Okay, _mostly_ alone.”

Michael was gone by the time you looked away from your cat and directed your attention back to the basement doorway. You weren’t sure how to feel about that. Relief was there, for sure, but it was only one portion of whatever the hell your brain was trying to process. You were so tired at this point that your emotions were all starting to blend together into mental sludge. It might be better not to think about it more than you needed to. You should just clean up the kitchen before trudging off to bed.

The atmosphere was still unnaturally heavy.

It was from such a rapid shift in the energy, a bitter taste of ethereal mud thick on your tongue, a miasma of toxic vibrations offsetting your being down to the very core. You felt like you were resting at the bottom of a pool. Pressure against your eardrums, pulse pounding, lungs burning...

_Mental note: invest in some black sage._

The white sage you normally used wasn’t even going to _cover_ the amount negativity that had undoubtedly been expelled during what just happened, on top of the despair you’d put in here from your earlier depressive episode. All of that negativity was now blanketing your poor kitchen and needed to be smoked out.

Regrettably, you’d become far too weary and frayed at the edges of your psyche to safely preform the cleansing that was needed. You would have to get some rest before attempting to rid the kitchen of the fresh negativity.

After cleaning up all of the blood you just realized Michael must have trailed around the house.

The kitchen was rife with the heady, metallic smell of it, too. Then again, that penetrating scent might be coming from where there were still traces of blood on your hands. Blood that had a 99.9% chance of _not_ being Michael’s.

 _Ooooh no_ , you were starting to feel a bit queasy now.

You were quick to run to the sink and begin erratically washing yourself free from the sticky crimson that had begun drying to cracked black patches along your skin. It was a neurotic need to clean yourself, which led to cleaning the blood from the _entire house_. Even the knob of the back door. Inside and out. _Repeatedly_.

It took what felt like hours of scrubbing, five buckets full of water that was tinged red to pink, and one scalding shower (the bruises circling your neck looked vicious even through the condensation on the mirror and your throat still felt scratchy) before you were settled back down enough to attempt sleep again. You didn’t know exactly how long your little cleaning frenzy lasted, but were surprised to find that it was only around two in the morning when you glanced to the clock on the kitchen radio.

Michael hadn’t made an appearance since he’d descended into his lair. Not one that you’d noticed during your cleaning frenzy, anyway.

You were still worried about his current physical state, but the smudged traces of blood you discovered on the handle of the fridge when you returned to the kitchen let you know that Michael had at least grabbed something to eat while you were in the shower. The entire pie Barbara gave you was gone, as well as the tub of Cool Whip.

Dammit, you hadn’t even _had_ any of the pie...

Michael was going to scarf it all down in one go, too, so there was no chance at attempting to sneak a piece at this point. That pie was never going to be seen again. You would be lucky if Michael so much as decided to return the empty pie tin to the kitchen when he was finished, so, yeah, you were shit out of luck on tasting what very well could have been Barbara’s last pie.

More pizza for you, then. Unless Michael decided to make off with all of _that_ next.

You let out a deep sigh, sore throat causing you to cough a couple of times. You didn’t know how you were going to explain the bruises to anyone who might see them if you didn’t figure out a way to cover them. You didn’t own any make-up, so no concealer was at your disposal.

Problems for later, your focus turning to why you were back in the kitchen and not already curled up in bed.

Washing the handle of the fridge down wasn’t what you went in there for, but you did it anyway. After that, there was only one thing left to do before you grabbed your cat and headed up to your room.

You set a tiny brass incense holder onto the center of the kitchen table, placing a single cone of sandalwood incense into it. You arranged your only two smoky quartz clusters, one on each side of the holder, and lit the cone. It wasn’t nearly as good as a full-out sage cleansing, but it was all you could come up with in your fatigued state. The sandalwood would also mask any lingering blood and chemical cleaner smells, so that was a bonus.

The incense was lit, the holder closed to lessen chances of a melted kitchen table, and you breathed the soothing scent of the sandalwood deep into your lungs. You may have coughed again from doing so, but you already felt a little lighter. Less anxious.

About to drop like a lead weight if you didn’t get into bed in the next five minutes.

You were about to do exactly that, your bed and your cat calling you, but a single thought of Michael had you stopping in your tracks. The basement door was open only an inch or so. It’d become sort of a ‘do not disturb’ sign over the weeks, but you couldn’t just caper off to bed without saying goodnight. Not even when your stomach was churning again with fear.

You subconsciously rubbed the front of your neck as you approached the basement door. It took a little while to build up the courage to pull it open a few more inches, but you could faintly detect Cool Whip amongst the usual musty basement smell. Being down there honestly couldn’t have been good for Michael’s health...

Controlling your breathing in order to keep an anxiety attack away, the sting of sandalwood and earthy decay in the air bringing yet another cough past your lips, you peered nervously down into the darkness. It was eerily silent down there, even with Michael involved. He might have gone back out for all you knew, but you still risked calling out as much as your abused throat would allow.

“Goodnight, Michael,” You said and cringed due to, you guessed it, _more_ coughing. Talking wasn’t helping your throat right now.

You were going to have to go out to buy cough drops and soup and pray that it would at least help your voice return to normal in the next day or two. As you’d never been choked before today, however, that could just be wishful thinking on your part.

With only silence following, you mumbled a tiny ‘sweet dreams then, I guess...’ and closed the basement door back to only being cracked an inch. You couldn’t help but wonder if what happened a couple of hours ago was going to obliterate all of the progress you thought you and Michael had been making in learning to coexist without him just up and slaughtering you.

He was hurt and you just wanted to help him, but now...

Your cat was waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. He meowed happily when you picked him up and carried him to your room, and, of course, immediately went to hog the bed when you set him back down and closed the door. You didn’t bother playfully scolding Haji for being so damn huge and fluffy.

Instead you kissed him on the head and wiggled underneath your blankets. You were angrily batted through said blankets for the horrendous treason of daring to move the king of the floof, but you were soon forgiven as he got comfortable in the plush dip of your side, between your shoulder and hip. He even went so far as to place his paw on your cheek; just like he used to do when he was a kitten. You let the comfort of his weight and the vibrations of his deep purrs slowly send you on your way to a hopefully dreamless slumber.

You jerked slightly when the distant sound of water being turned on tugged you back to consciousness. _Right_ as you’d been on the cusp to drifting off, too.

You had to listen for a long, groggy moment before you realized that you were hearing the shower running. There was also the faint squeak of bare feet shifting against the bottom of the tub—a sound only made if said tub was wet.

Was...was Michael actually in there _bathing_...?

Your shock at the notion of Michael willingly taking a shower without being harassed about it wore off to bring a languid smile to your expression. Chest growing all warm and tingly, you burrowed further under your blankets and living, _annoyed_ , meowing heater.

As someone who knew how hard it was to get the motivation to do something as simple as personal hygiene, you considered this a small step forward. You could have done without the whole choking bit earlier, but you were still happy that Michael finally got around to taking care of himself in some way.

Until you saw the state of the bathroom later that morning.

“Oh come _on!_ ”


End file.
